


Seven other selves

by LittleFear



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: #Side Baeksoo, 1950s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Sense8 (TV) Fusion, Bath Sex, Domestic Violence (not between main characters), Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mention of blood, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Sense8 sex, Sexual Tension, These tags sound worse than they are, Travel, alcohol consumption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-06-07 07:48:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15214493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleFear/pseuds/LittleFear
Summary: Spring, 1951: London’s sky is as grey as its inhabitants and Chanyeol is trying his best to put colours in his life between his waiter’s job and strict parents. Until one day, he is overwhelmed by sensations. He stumbles into a Japanese room, listens to non-existent music and hears bombs' explosions. At night, he meets a naked stranger in his mirror, all smiles and dimples.25/09/18: Discontinued. I wrote 10 chapters out of 12 but I honestly don't want to post them. I started to hate that story and my writing style and I don't want to post something I'm not satisfied with. I hope you understand.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I spent a very long time writing this story. I started it in November 2017 before stopping because I joined a fest. The file stayed in my folder for a long time and when I could finally continue it, it was March I think. This story is really special to me. It's different than what I'm usually writing... not that I write a lot, I know haha, it's just... I always loved historical stories and it felt good to write one too. A special one since I added Sense8 Universe to it. (Really, I love this show very very much and if you didn't watch it, it's okay you will understand my work anyway but, honestly, watch it if you have time. It's an international treasure.) 
> 
> Also, I want to thank my two betas. M, thank you for sticking with me after all this time and trying to find time to correct my chapters. L, my personal cheerleader, you are amazing and I literally live for the memes and sarcastic corrections you're sending me. And of course, thank you to everyone who will read this story.

A crashing sound followed by a curse brings Chanyeol’s attention back to the bar. The patron sitting there has soiled his own business attire with a Martini, the alcohol now splashed on the dusty floor just like the broken glass. Instead of apologising, the man shakes his hand in annoyance and requires a new one to the exasperated barman. Chanyeol can only sympathise with his colleague: it’s not how they like to start a day.  


Once the table he was cleaning was presentable enough, he moves to retrieve an old broom and somescrubbing brushes. No one will clean all these shards of glass if not for him anyway. He hums under his breath an old counting rhyme he had learnt back home in Korea.  


His grandmother always told him how important it is to remember the old songs, his family heritage. It was not because their country was tearing itself apart that he had to forget all the good things, and there were so much of them.The cool river near his grandma’s house in Damyang, the spicy scent of home-cooked _Gochujang_ or the buzzing sound of grasshoppers in the late summer nights. All these childhood memories were almost fuzzy now, but Chanyeol always had at heart to remember what he can while he can. He promised after all.

He offers a polite smile to the annoyed patron while picking up the shards of glass one by one. He will have to hurry before being screamed at by one of his co-workers. Besides cleaning the main room, he has to assist the cook back in cuisine. Even though this is a bar, some patrons enjoy eating a rapid sandwich or even hamburgers with French fries. And apparently, Chanyeol’s cooking wasn’t bad enough to free him from thatduty. On the contrary, some clients even complimented him on his dishes with large gestures to magnify their words – or make themselves understood.  


He gathers all the glass shards and brings them to the closest trash bin. Even though Chanyeol does his best to fit in this city, Londoners have yet to get accustomed to the sight of Asians walking down their streets. He is far from being the only foreigner in the capital, but most of the others are generally from India, Sri Lanka or Pakistan, and their proficiency in English is often questionable. So no, Chanyeol cannot really blame the customers for expecting him to have difficulties in English. He would assume the very same thing if a European were to set foot in Korea.

He bows his head to avoid the hanging flowerpot near the staff door. The owner most likely keeps it here to knock one of them down – or at least, this is the only explanation. He barges in the cuisine just in time to see his co-worker frowning at a new dish, probably not to his liking.  


“Kyungsoo, this hamburger will not change just because you frown at it,” he switches to Korean easily, his mind setting on the language as soon as he penetrates in the holy kitchen, “and the patrons won’t careabout its appearance anyway.”  


“Shut up Chanyeol,” the dialect from Seoul is particularly distinct when he curses at him, the plush lips set in a straight line. “Move your arse and prepare some sandwiches, it’s nearly noon.”  


Chanyeol hums in agreement and makes his way to the refrigerator. One of the other reasons he doesn’t mind working in the kitchen is the presence of Kyungsoo. The man acts like he doesn’t like him but he knows he is as relieved as himself to be able to speak freely in their mother tongue. Even though he speaks Korean at home – with his mother only – it’s still agreeable to be able to curse or to have someone else to talk to.  


He resumes his song, letting his voice murmur some words as he works on chopping onions. Chanyeol knows Kyungsoo will probably say something along the lines of “you sing off-key” or “please God, have mercy on my ears” but he will never ask him to stop. Sometimes, the chef will even tap along to a rhythm, his usually tense shoulders relaxing a little.  


This makes the taller smile. Small moments like these help him a lot. Especially when he thinks nothing awaits him anymore in this city, in this country or this world. Small moments are everything.  


He searches for a pan to sauté the onions alongside some garlic. He will have to let them soften for five minutes before pouring cream over so… he has time to bother the other man.  


Chanyeol sneaks his way to Kyungsoo, the small chef cutting meat with a slightly scary-looking knife. Maybe a wiser man would have let him be, but not Chanyeol. Teasing the smaller was a part of his “small moments”.

“Chanyeol, I can feel your awful breath down my neck,” Kyungsoo doesn’t even turn around and keeps his big eyes set on his work. “Go back to your sandwiches.”  


“I’m learning from you, chef,” he grins and blows on the smaller’s nape. The reaction is immediate as Kyungsoo’s head snaps at him, his round eyes glowing with annoyance. “I want to learn.”  


The smaller is about to answer when he bites his lips and decides against it. They both know Chanyeol will drop his questions quicker if Kyungsoo ignores him. They have played this game enough times. But today Chanyeol doesn’t want to back away.  


“Come on, talk to me,” the odour of cooked garlic spreads in the cuisine as he breathes deeply. “I would even learn this British thing that I don’t like, the pork pie.” He cocks his head and smiles. “Please?”  


He almost thought that Kyungsoo would give in but the smaller man shakes his head. “I don’t see the point, it’s not like you’re destined to succeed me,” he turns around to keep watch over Chanyeol’s pan an instant before looking up, their eyes meeting. “You know that your mother talked to the boss again yesterday?”  


Chanyeol’s shoulders deflate and he almost loses his smile in the process.  


“Don’t worry about that,” he gives his partner a toothy smile as he takes a step back toward his side of the kitchen. He has a frying pan to supervise. “I’ll stay. You’re going to have to teach me all the British dishes we can find, mark my words!”  


Kyungsoo’s eyes are hard to read but the chef gives him a smile of his own: little but present. Enough for Chanyeol to turn his back and concentrate on his sauce again. He pours the cream over the brown onions, the smell suddenly less overwhelming.  


He will not be deprived of his small moments.  


  


***

  


Chanyeol is finishing his last burger of the day when one of his co-workers asks for him. He frowns a little but agrees right away, his hands already busy undoing the knot of his apron. It’s not unusual for him to be called back in the main room, but it’s not even two o’clock yet, there’s no need to wipe the tables down. Most of the customers are still present.

He passes a hand in his black mop of hair – he is no longer cooking, so he can ruffle them now – and sends an apologetic smile to Kyungsoo. The chef doesn’t acknowledge it but Chanyeol knows he saw it. He also knows that the smaller man is secretly pissed off having to clean up after Chanyeol. Well, it cannot be helped.  


He makes his way outside the kitchen – barely avoiding the hanging flower pot – as his eyes rapidly set on a familiar figure. He thins his lips.  


As usual, his mother’s short black hair is perfectly combed. Strictly so. It’s matching her long brown coat, last autumn trend in London. He knows this because all the women in their late forties have this kind of coats nowadays and his mother was doing everything to be the perfect British wife.  


“ _You look so happy to see me_ ,” she begins in English, her accent even worse than some natives. Sometimes, Chanyeol truly believes she does it on purpose. “ _Can’t you smile at least for the sake of_ _appearances_ _?_ ”  


Overpriced gloves on, she barely brushes the cup of tea in front of her, as if afraid it would bite her. Chanyeol almost hopes it does and he isn’t one to wish bad things upon others. It is reserved for his family.  


“Well,” he begins in Korean as he takes a sit in front of her, the wooden chair more comfortable than his mother’s piercing glare. “I would be more than happy to enjoy your presence, Mother, if you weren’t here to take this place from me.”  


The bar's odour usually calms him, yet the itchy perfume of his mother is heavier than the alcohol in this cornered space of the room. As her son, he knows she chose this table in particular not to be seen by curious patrons or whoever might judge her for stepping into this place. He closes his fingers in a fist, his two hands resting in his laps.  


“You’ve been here long enough,” she switches to Korean as she takes a sip of her tea. Probably an Earl Grey, like every time she orders anything. “You are no longer required to work here.” She grimaces a little at her cup but it’s barely visible. She is too good at controlling her expressions in public now. “I know we were struggling a few years ago but now you can quit this job and actually learn by your father’s side”,lukewarm tea is left on the table where Chanyeol’s eyes lie, unable to meet his mother’s cold stare. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. He isn’t comfortable with sharing a conversation with his mother on any given day anyway. “You’re better than this.”  


“I’m already studying at university, Mother, and this place gives me the opportunity of earning my own money.”  


These talks are endlessly more or less the same, the words blending together as he readies himself for his mother’s nagging. How much he wishes he could be back in the kitchen now, far away from her scowling eyes.  


“You can earn your own money at your father’s company” she counters, her calm voice uncanny in the generally loud place. “Look me in the eyes when I talk to you. Don’t be rude.”  


Chanyeol can feel his nails digging red crescent moons on his skin, the atmosphere of the bar suffocating. He wishes he could be anywhere but here.  


“Let me reformulate then,” he meets his mother’s eyes properly this time. “This place gives me the opportunity to earn my own money without depending on you _at all_.”  


She actually scoffs at him while observing – judging – her surroundings. His mother wasn’t always like that. She used to care once. She used to care for something other than the proper etiquette.  


“A few pennies, barely enough to feed yourself,” she eyes his work clothes, his white shirt stained by oil. He doesn’t even try to hide it, well aware of the futility of the action. “We both know why you like this place.”  


His mother used to care for music. She would whisper in his ears some ushered melodies, somewhere between their late family dinners and night walks in the meadows.  


“I know the so-called cook is Korean,” the word ‘cook’ lingers on her tongue a second too long, just enough to be insulting. “And that you enjoy his company. But most of all,” she drops her gaze to the table and Chanyeol is almost surprised by the gesture. “I know you play the piano here some nights.”  


She taught him a few years ago. They didn’t have a piano back in Seoul, but they owned one in Damyang. A grand piano in the main room, standing proudly near the garden. He would sit there for hours sometimes, playing melodies of his own. It was the only way to make him stay still, the rest of the time he would be running around the house with his friends and laughing too loudly for his father’s liking.  


“I will consider starting to work for Father so,” he clenches his jaw, “don’t tell him about the piano, please,” his mother has the decency to nod. “And don’t tell me to stop working here anymore either. I can manage both.”  


At his last sentence, she frowns a little but rapidly smoothes her face again. “All right, but don’t forget your date with Miss Katherine then,” she tugs at her gloves to signify the impending end of the conversation. “You know her father is an important business partner for our family.” She sends him a final glare before getting up, her purse in hand.  


Chanyeol follows her and mutters a “Yes, Mother” before watching her take her leave.  


He finally looks at the mark left by his nails in his hands. Things used to be different.  


  


***

  


Strangely, wiping down the counter helps him forget his previous bitterness and the young man finds himself humming under his breath again. The barman – Chanyeol thinks his name is John, but the man barely speaks to him and nobody really calls him by his name anyway – is refilling the counter stock of bottles, a long night awaiting them.  


Tonight he will not play the piano, no, but the night will still be very busy. He knows he will have to run everywhere to take commands or even assist Kyungsoo in the kitchen if things really turn erratic. He doesn’t mind much, he likes to be active. Moreover, tips tend to be more generous if the alcohol flows abundantly so Chanyeol isn’t one to complain.  


He smiles and drums his fingers on the wooden surface when he hears a crashing noise, louder than all the bottles of alcohol could ever make together. The sound reverberates inside him as he sucks on a breath, his eyes already darting outside for the source of the horrendous clatter. It’s an awfully familiar clangour, crawling up on his spine like an icy hand, each inch of his skin slowly covered by goosebumps. Chanyeol shakes his head: he cannot afford to be paranoiac now. He is no longer in Korea and World War II is long over. It’s _over_.  


But even if he repeats this sentence in his head, he knows what a bomb sounds like when he hears one. This is why he runs outside under the bewildered look of John, searching for any trace of the accident, convinced to find utter chaos outside. His eyes are frantic but there is nothing when he steps on the street. No corpse, no destructed building, no crying man. Everything is calm and peaceful except for his beating heart.  


Chanyeol bites on his bottom lip. Did he just imagine that sound? Did he revive one of his memories in broad daylight?  


He surveys his surroundings one last time before entering the bar again. John has an incredulous look on his face and Chanyeol sends him a small smile.  


He needs to calm down.  


  


***

  


Chanyeol checks himself one last time in the mirror before leaving, his little episode of yesterday forgotten. He adjusts the bowler hat on his head, his naturally curly black hair trying to escape from under it. A strand of hair is pushed behind his ear as he sighs a little. In his sharp suit, leather footwear and primly ironed white shirt, he looks like his father even if he inherited his mother’s features, his large eyes and round face being her best attributes. When he was younger, he was happy to look like her, to be called “handsome” and “pretty boy”. Now, he isn’t so sure anymore.  


A tall umbrella in hand, he leaves the mansion to join the flow of the street. He has to pass by King Charles Street to arrive at the little café fancied by Miss Katherine. Although their parents set them up, Chanyeol actually enjoys the girl’s – no, woman’s– company. He knows most of his peers hate the idea of an arranged marriage, but with Miss Katherine, he wouldn’t really mind. Of course, he will never fall in love with her, but she is nice to talk to. She actually cares for him and that, _that_ is actually the most important. Even if she’s just being polite most of the time, it’s still precious to him.  


He crosses the street, the fog heavy in the morning. When he first arrived in Britain in June 1947, he was surprised by the weather, by the constant moist and heavy atmosphere. And it was nowhere as pleasant as the fresh and marine air of the beaches in Korea. On the contrary, the damp atmosphere chilled him to the bone the first day, his runny nose and red cheeks adding to his already pitiful image. He remembers only too well trying his best not to cry at the perspective of spending his life here.  


He had failed.

At the next corner, the fog dissipates a little, just enough to give a spring to his step. Chanyeol learnt to enjoy London and its bizarre weather. He learnt to make good use of rainy days and now, he enjoys the rare rays of sunshine even more, like a precious gift.  


He arrives at his date on time, Miss Katherine already settled in the café. As much as Chanyeol tries, his date will always beat him by a few minutes, a smug smile on her lips. She knows very well how to put to shame his supposed punctuality.  


“ _Mister Park, how nice of you to join me in this day_ ,” the table is laid with a linen tablecloth and white napkin, fine porcelain dishes and fresh red flowers. The perfect arrangements for Miss Katherine in her sophisticated dress and polished jewellery. “ _I almost believed I’ll have to enjoy this tea by myself._ ”  


Miss Katherine is everything someone can expect from a European. Curvy blond hair styled in a low chignon with blue cheesecloth scarf, the soft fabric twisted between two braids over her ears, the end of the blue cloth grazing her white neck, enhancing her natural grace and teasing side. At her words, Chanyeol allows himself to roll his eyes. His dates with the damsel are more and more amusing when it is just the two of them, far away from their parent’s judging stares. It feels natural.  


“ _I already told_ _you countless times_ _to call me Chanyeol_ ,” his English is perfectly comprehensible even if he doesn’t have the Londoner’s accent. He feels like playing in a theatre show if he reproduces it and he doesn’t want to sound fake in front of Miss Katherine. She deserves better. “ _and for your information, I’m perfectly on time._ ”  


Sipping on her cup of black tea, she sends him a warm smile as he takes a seat. The place is usually packed in the afternoon so they chose to meet in the morning, even if it was a bit unconventional. His mother frowned at him when he told her yesterday night. But then again, when wasn’t she?  


“ _I have good news_ ,” her voice is measured, controlled yet he can feel the happiness hidden behind her good manners. “ _My father finally_ _abandoned_ _the idea of me staying at home and accepted to let me have a job,”_ she wrinkles her nose slightly. _“As long as it’s not too much but whatever._ ”  


“ _Really?_ ” She nods and refills her cup of tea again, the fragrance of black smoked tea blended with sandalwood filling the air. He also scents some candy fruits in it but his nose could betray him. He takes his own cup in hand as the light music in the background slowly soothes him too, his shoulders sagging in relief. “ _That’s great! You deserve much better than just staying at home.”_ Black tea is not Chanyeol’s favourite but then again, he doesn’t even know if he has one. _“Do you already know what you want to do? I know how much you like clothes for instance._ ”  


She smiles again, her pinky near the bottom of the cup. He noticed she has done her nails, red varnish contrasting with the white dishes. “ _This is why I’m always looking forward to our meetings,_ ” she levels her eyes with his. “ _You always listen to what I say. You’re very agreeable to talk to._ ”  


“ _Well,_ ” he grins and lets out a sheepish laugh, “ _you listen to my babbling too,_ ” the background music is familiar yet Chanyeol knows he never heard it. It’s a soft humming accompanied by a piano, the kind of music to listen to in the calm, dark night. “ _This is how conversation works._ ”  


“ _I’m the one_ _who uses sarcasm_ _here, mister Park_ ,” her tone is nothing but playful, a smirk making its way on her shiny pink lips, “ _but you are right. Even if it’s not really what I meant,_ ” she cocks her head a little. “ _You’re really paying attention to people. Not for the sake of conversation but because you’re sincerely interested. It’s nice._ ”  


“ _You are too_ ,” she shakes her head as he continues. “ _Don’t deny it, I know you. You’re always attentive and gentle to everyone._ ”  


“ _You’re too good with me_ ,” the music is warming Chanyeol from the inside, his forefinger beating to the melody. He is sure it’s not a British composition and there is no way it’s Indian either. It’s too soft, too gentle. “ _Sometimes, my own mother talks to me and I’m just pretending to pay attention,_ ” Chanyeol focuses his eyes on his date again, letting the music linger at the back of his head. Katherine has cast her eyes outside as she talks, the grey morning giving her a ghostly yet charming side. She has beautiful blue eyes and a beautiful mouth too. Her lips are two pink petals, pretty even when they are blooming into a sad smile, words harsher than any flower. “ _Even you. You’re sometimes so passionate about music that I just… stop listening._ ”  


This doesn’t come as a surprise, the Korean man fully aware of his over-eagerness to talk, to share his day or simply speak about his dreams. It still stings a little to hear it but he will never blame Miss Katherine for her straightforwardness. She is honest with him and it’s more than what his family can offer him. More than what anyone can offer him at this point.  


“ _I will not talk about the background music then_ ,” he smiles and takes a sip of his cup, the balanced, full-bodied tea probably a delight for formal occasions or stern women but not him. “ _Even though I’m dying to._ ”  


“ _Well, you can talk about music_ ,” her red nails outline the shape of the cup as she looks at him again, a pert smile on the lips, “ _just… with moderation and-_ ” her brow creases ever so sightly as if she had somehow confused herself with her own words, stopping mid-sentence. Chanyeol waits patiently as Miss Katherine shakes her head, her blond hair falling into place, “ _which background music are you talking about?_ ”  


A pregnant pause follows her question, Chanyeol momentarily stunned. He knows miss Katherine is not the biggest fan of music in general, but she had at least paid a minimum attention to her surroundings, hadn’t she?  


“ _I’m speaking about the piano_ ,” he chuckles a little then, his hand hiding his smile. He knows he doesn’t have to but he remembers only too well his father’s words about him being too loud. “ _It’s quite unique I think,_ _I have never heard_ _it before._ ”  


“ _Chanyeol_ ,” she bites on her bottom lip, her blue eyes confused. “ _There is no music_ ,” she lets out a small breath and downcasts her eyes on the table. “ _No piano_.”  


“ _There is_ ,” he knows he is being stubborn for something this petty but he won’t let Miss Katherine go with one of her tricks this time. He knows the damsel and how much she likes to play with people sometimes. “ _It’s really soft but don’t tell me you’re not hearing it. I’ll not fall for another of your jokes._ ”  


A light frown wrinkles her forehead as she contemplates the table – or a point in space invisible to his own eyes. He wonders one instant if he had offended her, the British woman being sensitive on certain given topics.  


“ _I think_ ,” she begins slowly, carefully, her voice lower than before “ _that it’s in your head._ ” She lifts her eyes again, her blue eyes more serious than before even if the light teasing in her voice is still rolling easily over her tongue. “ _You have great inspiration, I would not be surprised if you composed something in your head during our date_ ,” she puts a strand of blond hair behind her ear, the gesture betraying her nervousness. “ _I’m actually flattered, mister Park. Who would_ _have thought_ _I would be your muse?_ ”  


The dim morning light is not helping miss Katherine’s joyful voice, and the concern apparent in her light eyes is confusing Chanyeol even more. He can differentiate a tune in his head from real music and he is just about to say so to his date when he remembers the crashing noise from yesterday, his beating heart and frantic eyes. He was so _sure_ he heard it. So sure yet he _couldn’t_ deny what was before his eyes once he stepped outside: a packed street busting with energy and running children. No bomb. No noise. No music. He had to admit that his senses had failed him, just like now, shame colouring his neck. He bites on his lips, the damsel’s hesitant stare too much for him.  


He doesn’t want to simply admit his own mistake but he also doesn’t want to linger longer on this topic so he smiles reluctantly, putting as much sincerity as possible in his expression. “ _Yes, sorry,_ ” his tea must be too cold now to be drunk now. Good. “ _I must be tired from yesterday night,_ ” Miss Katherine let out a discreet but discernible relieved breath. “ _Things were crazy. You must come one day._ ”  


She lets out a pearly laugh, “ _and what would our fathers think of this?_ ”  


“ _They don’t have to know,_ ” he grins as she nods, her composure more relaxed. “ _let’s have some fun._ ”  


She agrees easily, more than happy to be away from their parents. Chanyeol too, even if he still hears the soft humming and low melody in his ears, clearer than the day. It’s not from him. Definitely.  


  


***

  


Chanyeol didn’t get to play the piano that night. And he probably won’t for a while.  


One of his co-workers told him it wasn’t his fault, that he was good, very good, but he wasn’t well-known at all. That this new pianist was a small celebrity in the centre of London and having him here will probably bring in more patrons. It wasn’t Chanyeol’s fault. It just happens.  


Chanyeoljust nodded at his co-worker, a small smile on the lips. It cannot be helped after all.  


He is wiping one of the tables with a new tea towel, the corner of his eyes itching. He doesn’t know why he feels so disappointed. He never was the pianist of the bar. Not officially. But he always looked forward to playing the grand and large instrument, his fingers dancing on the white and black keys. Chanyeol doesn’t need a public, not really, he just likes to be able to let himself soak in the music, to let himself speak through it. Most of the people here don’t like to speak with him, could it be his family, co-worker or even Miss Katherine sometimes. But they do like his music. On Saturday nights, some people always gathered near him, closing their eyes to listen to his melody, to his feelings.  


He scrubs the table harder, the wooden table probably neater than it has been in weeks. He knows some people have it worse than him in this city, in this country or this world. He knows he has a roof, a steady job and a bright future ahead of him thanks to his parents. He knows all of that.  


He fucking _knows_ all of that.  


His vision blurs and he knows he is probably crying. He wipes his tears away but they keep running down his cheeks, mapping his face until they fall on the table. He doesn’t know why he is crying. This is stupid. It’s just piano. He didn’t lose his job, he didn’t lose a member of his family, he didn’t lose a co-worker, it’s just piano, it’s just…  


His shoulders sag and he has to bring a hand in front of his mouth to prevent any sound from coming out.  


He is alone.  


  


***

  


Chanyeol dutifully puts the flour in the cake mould and then pours everything in. It’s raining outside, as always in London but today he doesn’t find any joy in the grey weather. He knows he would generally make fun of Kyungsoo’s wet hair or jumps in puddles to dirty the whole bar with his soaked clothes. He would generally do that, yes.  


He puts his preparation on the table, eyes downcast on the next ingredients. He doesn’t even remember what cake he is supposed to make.  


“Chanyeol,” the cook’s voice is always low yet an underlying worry seems to make it lower than ever, “are you okay?”  


The taller turns his attention to his co-worker for an instant before saying. “Yes, of course,” he takes moist prunes in his hands. He probably meant to make a cake with prunes. Yes. “Why? Are you feeling left out because this cake gets all my attention?”  


Kyungsoo gives him a long pointed stare, his big eyes judging him intently. Chanyeol doesn’t know what the man is thinking, his co-worker always too good at hiding his emotions. He doesn’t know what he sees when he looks at Chanyeol.  


“You don’t sing, you don’t speak,” Kyungsoo frowns a little, his hands fumbling together. “You didn’t even try to look over my shoulders once,” he takes a tentative step towards Chanyeol as he speaks. “Are you really okay?”  


It’s rare. It’s really rare that someone asks him that question. And it’s not from his family or his soon to be fiancée, it’s from this “so-called cook” that his mother had mocked a few days ago.  


Chanyeol smiles brightly then, feeling more confident than he has been in days. “Yes,” he cocks his head on the side. “I am.”  


Maybe he doesn’t have a piano right now, but cooking with Kyungsoo is good enough. Kyungsoo cares. He cares and it’s all Chanyeol is asking for.  


  


***

  


Chanyeol tries to smile more often around Kyungsoo and eventually, he begins to believe in his own words too. He doesn’t know why not being able to play the piano affected him that much but he will content himself with what he can have. Currently, the cook’s keen interest in his dish.  


“So,” his voice is flat and far from being impressed. “You are telling me that _this_ ,” he looks up at Chanyeol so the taller actually stops from fumbling with his hands, “is your best try at cooking a pork pie?”  


“...Yes?” the dragging end of his answer turns into a question and Chanyeol smiles sheepishly. “I mean, it seems good…?”  


The pie is cold now and Chanyeol had the intention of topping it ****with jelly when Kyungsoo’s shadow made its appearance behind him, his judging glare enough to make the taller drop his spoon. Kyungsoo may be petite but he has a presence loud enough to make people stop in their tracks and listen to him. Needless to say, the cook uses this knowledge to his advantage pretty often.  


“It is,” Kyungsoo smiles. “I just wanted to tease you.”  


This makes Chanyeol beam. He knows he probably has his too wide smile on his face– and it makes him look creepy according to his family – but he doesn’t care at the moment. He worked on this recipe the whole afternoon, humming to this song he heard in the company of Miss Katherine. He is pretty sure that the song has some magical power because it’s the first time Kyungsoo actually smiles at one of his dishes.  


“Does that mean I’ll become your apprentice?” Kyungsoo rolls his eyes at him and grumbles under his breath as he takes a few steps back, probably intending to search for new ingredients in the cold room. “Come on, don’t ignore me...” he whines but there is no need, Kyungsoo is already out of sight.  


Chanyeol smiles softly. The cook has been nicer than usual today, it’s already a small miracle in itself.  


He decides to finish his dish when he notes that his pork pie is no longer here. He blinks once, twice, but no, he is not mistaking: his pork pie is not here. Instead, a pile of paper with scribbled characters – Chinese? Japanese? – is in front of him, covering the wooden mahogany table from the … wait. Mahogany table? Chanyeol is left with wide eyes open as he takes his surroundings, his breath caught in his throat. He is no longer in the kitchen.  


Instead of a kitchen with greyish cupboards, overused utensils and a pork pie, he is met with the sight of a large bedroom, the white walls serving as canvases for delicately painted blossoming cherries. Slowly, Chanyeol lets go of his breath and as he inhales again, he noticesthat even the scent differs. A freshly burned incense releases a musky odour, like the one he could smell in the forest in Damyang. He breathes again, missing the familiar scent dearly. He knows he should be freaked out but he finds himself taking a step towards the centre of the room, the straw mats beneath his feet warming something in him. He counts the tatami until his stare falls on a futon set near the biggest painting: a roaring gold tiger, ready to rip apart his enemies. Whatever was stuck in his throat is gulped down immediately.  


He really should be freaking out to imagine something this vivid in broad daylight – even the scents, the foreign writing system, the soft straw mat – but he is actually fascinated. He never thought his mind could be capable of showing him something this beautiful. Could it be an inner wish of an ideal room? Far from the cold and strict decorations his mother chose (“It’s British,” she had said.”) Yet he never thought he would want a futon as a bed. Weird.  


He wants to explore more of this strange bedroom when he feels a hand on his shoulders and he turns around to see the confused eyes of Kyungsoo. The world around him is changing again, spinning in front of his eyes until his stomach clenches. It’s like taking a blow from a boxer right in the guts, his vision turning white for a second, the world upside down. The last time he checked, being brought back to reality didn’t hurt yet again, it’s the first time a daydream felt this real. The mahogany desk felt real enough to be touched.  


“Are you all right?” the voice of the cook is soft, softer than the tatami Chanyeol was on. The latter blinks, trying to get rid of the white points dancing in front of his eyes as he steadies his feet. He is on the tiled floor. The real floor. “You seemed…,” Kyungsoo sighs, “did you think about the piano again?”  


“What?” Chanyeol blinks his confusion away. “No, no. Don’t worry it’s just,” he juts out his lower lip in a pout, “you ignored me.”  


The other man rolls his – big – eyes again and returns to his side of the kitchen, busy with a different dish.  


Chanyeol frowns a little. He doesn’t like to lie to Kyungsoo but it’s not like he really can talk about his recent pick of imagination. The bomb sound, the music and now the bedroom. He is pretty sure someone is going to report him if he opens his mouth and thus ends up in a hospital. Which is, far worse than his current situation. So he keeps his mouth shut and finishes his pork pie.  


The scent of a musky forest still lingers even with the baked pork pie in front of him. He doesn’t know what to think of this.  


  


***

  


Chanyeol cannot say he likes his mansion, the already uninviting entrance hall seeming to want to eat him alive, the usual musty smell shaking him to the core. The light is so dim, almost like gaslight, the brown walls are spidery with the shadows of potted plants – people really have to stop with these everywhere – and forgotten dreams. He looks up to see a painting made by his mother as he hangs his coat, remembering his youth, his mother’s passion. He shakes his head as he climbs the flight of stairs, the high ceiling never stopping, so high it makes his head reels. The Korean man shakes his head and continues.  


Strangely enough, the rain made him think over and over his supposed ‘daydream.’ He already had vivid dreams – at night – but he was never in control in them, he has never been able to want to do something – like, choosing to go to the centre of the room – or even read. It may be stupid, but he cannot read in his dreams and, in this room, even if he didn’t actually read the foreign characters, he could decipher them.  


It’s not like the crashing sound or the soft melody. These two required only his hearing but not this time. This time he could smell, touch and _feel_. It was different yet he doesn’t have another explanation than this: he daydreamt. Again.  


A sigh escapes his lips as he rushes for the bathroom, thankful to be alone. A nice shower will probably clear his mind and it _needs_ to be cleared. As nice as this room or the melody were – not the crashing sound – he cannot continue like this. Miss Katherine already looked suspicious enough as it is and it’s only a matter of time before this kind of events starts to affect his social and professional life.  


He lets his shirt fall to the floor as he approaches the sink, the big mirror illuminated by the dim light of the oil lamp. Right, even if they are wealthier now, only the parts of the house displayed to the public were really taken care of.  


He takes his toothbrush as he thinks. Maybe, just maybe, he is thinking too much about working with his father and his mind is trying to make things easier for him, to trick him into a false reality. A really real-like one, he will concede.  


Chanyeol looks up in the mirror but instead of finding his rounded face and too big ears, he meets a sharp jaw and dreamy eyes, the corner softening as the man tilts his head slightly, his black hair falling into his eyebrows.  


“Oh, hello.”  


_Mother fucking hell._  


Chanyeol doesn’t usually curse but hell; there is a _man_ in his _mirror_ and he is _speaking_. He is dumbstruck as he opens his mouth to answer but no sound comes out, the stranger in the mirror completely at ease. The light is playing shadows on his white features, the only exception being his eyes: liquid ink and charcoal intense enough to leave Chanyeol’s mouth hanging open.  


He cannot find a logical explanation for this dream. He is not supposed to dream about men. Even less naked one as he takes the state of the guest in his mirror, languid and unabashed.  


“This is not happening.” Chanyeol murmurs as he lifts his hand to touch the cool surface of the mirror. Except it is when instead of a cold and smooth surface he touches bare and hot skin.  


“It is,” the man repeats for him as he smiles, _dimples_ appearing on his cheeks, his hand fully open against Chanyeol’s. “Nice to meet you, my name is Zhang Yixing.”  


  


  


  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi~  
> I'm aware not a lot of people will read this story. Actually, it's not even that good. I'm disappoited with it in many ways but... I spend months writing it and I don't want my efforts to be wasted. Whoever is reading it or will read it: thank you. 
> 
> To L: thank you for always being here for me. You don't even know how much your support matter. I swear I will write a story just for you one day.

He has thick fingers. Thicker than his own. 

Yixing tilts his head, his fingers slowly, so very slowly, outlining the tip of the warm fingers and tender skin. The man stares at him with bewilderment and this only makes Yixing’s smile widen. 

“You're not dreaming,” a pause follows his voice, the man blinking again as if to chase him away. It wouldn't be the first time someone tries, even though it's useless. They cannot escape each other. Not really. Yixing lets his face appear open, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Even if I’m flattered that you think so. I must be very attractive.” 

The man blinks once more – he really has beautiful and big eyes – before retreating his hand, as if burnt by the contact. Only the memory of his warm skin lingers on his fingers for a moment, the cool temperature of his own mirror rapidly spreading again like a shiver. Over seconds, the smooth surface is as cold as always. He drops his own hand, not really surprised by the reaction. 

The man must be in his early twenties, even younger. Perhaps. His big and anxious eyes make him look like a child caught stealing in his mother's wallet. Even though the child in question has a really nice torso. Yixing lets his eyes follow the defined lines of the man's abs, appreciative. The society can tell him what is right or wrong but he recognises a fine body when he sees one. It is not only about gender, it’s about the shape, the aura. The charisma. 

“You’re…” The man has a really deep voice, soothing in some weird but pleasant way. “You’re naked. You should...you know.” 

Yixing just lets a small and amused "oh" escape his mouth, his lips curling into a smile. He sometimes forgets that nudity is not a concept shared by the whole world, even if the man in front of him is clearly Asian. He retrieves a white towel in one of his closets and wraps it loosely around his hips, just enough to hide his arse. Just enough to let the imagination run wild, too. 

“Now that I’m not...” Yixing lets his voice drag on the end, liking the big eyes concentrated on him. “distracting you anymore, would you care to give me your name?” 

“Oh,” the man blinks again – a habit of his, visibly – before smiling for the first time and Yixing almost loses his own smile, surprised at the sight. “Sorry, my name is Park Chanyeol and… hum, sorry if I was being rude but I don't meet strangers in my mirror very often." 

If he wasn't already smiling at the stranger, Yixing would right now. Chanyeol seems less panicked than before, his toothy smile and big eyes bright with emotions. It seems he had come to terms with the situation, not weirded out by an – almost – naked stranger in his mirror anymore. This reaction is actually so casual that Yixing naturally takes a step back as his lips tighten in a frozen smile. Nobody took a ‘visit’ this well so far. Not even him. 

He remembers only too well the first time he ‘visited’ someone – or the other way around, really – and it did not go very well. Yixing threw a Chinese vase at Junmyeon’s head, one of his most prized possession, an old porcelain vase with various decorations of flowers and birds connected on a blue background surrounded by black. A unique piece of work. A vestige from an ancient palace, destroyed by his fear of the unknown. And maybe his fear of Junmyeon’s sword too. Now he knows Junmyeon’s couldn’t really hurt him, but at that time he didn’t. 

The stranger, on the other hand, lets this reality sink in smoothly, like a child eager to be a part of a new magical adventure. Yixing gives in too, the warm brown eyes too expressive for his own sake. The others will scold him later, his trust given on a toothy smile, but Yixing cannot help himself. His new soul buddy – Baekhyun chose the name and even if they were all against it, it stuck anyway– is really hot. 

“Besides,” the deep voice is careful, it drags on the end but, unlike Yixing, it’s not for the audience’s attention. On the contrary, the man seems aware of his loud and deep voice, as though he wants to hide it under his breath. Yixing doesn’t understand why. “Are you Korean too? I understand you perfectly but your name…” he pauses again as his eyes widen. “Sorry, it’s none of my business!” 

“Don’t worry,” Yixing smiles again, way too easily. “I’m Chinese and I don’t understand a single word of Korean,” the big eyes blink slowly at him again, as if the world will pause if he presses his eyes together a little longer. “Just like you probably don’t speak Chinese either. However, we can communicate because we’re sort of… connected? You’re acquiring my ability to speak Chinese while I’m doing the same with Korean.” Chanyeol frowns his dark brows, his bottom lip jutting out in a concentrated pout. The man is probably unconscious of his current expression but it makes Yixing’s stomach do interesting things. The others are definitely going to scold him. “But it’s a little complicated. And I don’t think you’re ready to have this conversation while being almost naked in your bathroom.” 

Chanyeol’s cheeks flame red, one of his hand massaging the back of his nape. “Yeah,” he lets his hand fall as he smiles sheepishly. “I’m expected by my father for dinner but," he leans on his white washbasin, his face closer to the mirror. "I really want to learn about all of … this. Whatever it is.” 

Eager. Beautiful. Shy. Yixing is already looking forward to their next meeting. 

“I will gladly teach you whatever you want to know,” the steam from his previous bath is now cooling down, leaving the air humid and somewhat disagreeable even if Yixing is barely noticing the change of temperature, his eyes racking down the body in front of him. “Don’t worry about a thing, we will meet again, Chanyeol.”

The stranger in the mirror nods shyly, visibly still stunned by the puzzling exchange before disappearing steadily, like condensation on the mirror. Chanyeol seems surprised by the end of their conversation, his beautiful gaze caught one last time by Yixing’s. 

The big, round mirror only reflect his own traits now, the Chinese man huffing before heading outside where his warm room waits for him, the morning light only appearing now even though his servant has already been on the go for hours. 

Yixing barely has time to wrap himself in a red robe that the person he was thinking about barges into his room, without preamble, the scowl of his eyebrows marrying his lips. 

Rude. 

“How much time exactly does a man need to take a bath? I will tell you: less than two hours!”

“Good morning to you too, Yifan." He elegantly folds a knot of the front of his robes before sitting down on his bed, legs on display and a sleepy smile on his lips. "How can I help you today?" 

Frustration clouds over Yifan’s features despite the man’s attempt at cooling his expression. Yixing watches every flick of eyes with great interest ; as slumberous and unreserved as he may appear, he actually pays attention. 

“Yixing, as your servant, I must remind you how important your meeting with Mr. Li Xu Kun is. His influence on the music scene must be taken into account and your professor insisted greatly on the momentousness of this meeting.” 

“And as my friend?” Yifan straightens a bit at Yixing’s voice, the grey Zhongshan suit reminding Yixing of the difference between their worlds. 

The simple suit is composed of four outside pockets – for balance and symmetry – probably empty by judging of the flattened state in which they were, just like most of Yifan's outfits. Having empty pockets means no desire for material objects, consequently adhering to the ideas of the Communist Party of China. Yixing flickers his gaze back on his servant. 

“As your friend, I would tell you to be careful. I don’t trust this man and, even if you’re a man yourself you’re...” Yixing tips his head, flashing a bright grin to his friend while crossing his legs to Yifan’s utmost annoyance, the scowl between his brows not easing. “Yes. That. You’re not seducing anyone at that meeting, except with music, so please, behave.” 

“Don’t worry about that,” Yixing stands up to search for the perfect outfit for the day, his eyes sharper now that his gaze is not directed at his friend anymore. “I have my eyes on someone new.” 

“I sincerely hope it's a woman this time, Yixing,” the weather seems great and Yixing lets his thin fingers follow the edge of a beautiful Chinese silk robe, still an instant, before moving toward a suit, firm under his fingertips, just like his servant's voice. “Even if I don't care about the way you… fool around, people do. The party does. I don't want to give them a reason to arrest you.” 

Yixing smiles sadly at the word ‘party’, knowing too well the growing influence of Mao’s government over his friend, over China. A dark suit in hand, he turns toward Yifan again, his usual smile on his lips. 

“Don’t worry. It’s not someone anyone can see.” Yifan’s eyes widen in understanding but before he can utter another word, Yixing starts to undress. “Of course, we can discuss it now if you want to, even if-”

“I will see you later.” 

Yifan closes the door hastily as Yixing is left in his room alone, smile falling from his face. As much as he would like to speak about Chanyeol to his friend – or to the others – he has his own life to deal with. 

The suit in his hand is too heavy for the weather outside but it is not like Yixing has a choice in the matter. He wishes he had. 

 

***

With the will of making Beijing a productive city, a city for the workers, many things have changed in two years and sometimes Yixing cannot recognise his own town or the citizens living in it, urbanisation blending with the past and not necessarily in an expected way. 

On his bicycle – Yixing truly misses his car sometimes but not today – he pedals in the street, sun batting down on his nape just like everyone else, even if he is not one of them, not a worker. He is not an honourable peasant, nor is he a carpenter, a blacksmith or a hard-working baker. No, Yixing is a scholar, an artist, a musician, everything that the party despises now. 

Yixing remembers bitterly a quote from Mao while he crosses the road, sweat pearling at his temples. 

Swollen in head, weak in legs, sharp in tongues but empty in belly.

He shakes his head as he sees a group of girls traversing the street, some of them big-jawed looking awkward in their elegant dress but happy, happy with their free time off the fields or any manual work. 

One of them reminds him of a girl he knew when he was younger, when he was still living in a small village. Back then, the only preoccupation of youngsters was to determine who would catch the most fishes in the river or if they would find yuzu on Mr. Xiu's trees this time, the imperfect citrus being one of the children’s favourite fruit. It was one of these times, one of these afternoons, when a young girl – was her name Li Yua or Li Nua? – came to play with them, dirty robe on and dark, obstinate eyes. She wasn’t particularly nice nor pleasant – not the way she breathed with wet, repellent wheezes – but she was good at picking yuzu, the intense scent of the fruit somewhat masking the little girl’s stench. 

The girl’s dress on the street is clean but she has the same dark, determined eyes as Li Yua. The same passion. 

Yixing finally pulls over in front of a tall building known for business, and straightens his suit. As much as he doesn't look forward to this meeting, he has to live up to his reputation. A clean suit is a part of it. 

He chases away his memories about yuzu, the forest and dirty clothes, but keeps the souvenir of determined eyes, having earned the pleasure of seeing them, whether it is in his childhood’s friend eyes, the stranger’s or his own. 

He goes forward. 

 

***

Chin resting on two fingers, Yixing is relaxed against the cushions, unlike the man in his late thirties that requested this meeting, sitting straight in the blue armchair, though the position is clearly forced. Not to impress him, clearly, but surely for the soldier standing a few meters away, eyeing Yixing suspiciously. The artist answers him with a disarming smile.

“Mr. Zhang,” begins Mr. Li Xu Kun as the soldier frowns, visibly not amused by Yixing’s reaction. Too bad. “It’s a pleasure to meet such a great musician, I must say I’m a big fan of you,” this earns Yixing’s attention, and he fights a grin from appearing on his face. “I have been at your concert two weeks ago and your music truly wooed my heart."

If Yixing didn’t know any better, he would have been tempted to ask if it was sincerely his music that wooed the other man’s heart or rather his sexy body, but even him knows the limits. The presence of a soldier of the Communist Party is enough indication and despite his common appearance, Li Xu Kun is far for a common man. Far from a common fan. 

“My only wish is to fill the citizens’ hearts with heartfelt music to motivate them afterwards when they return to work.” As he speaks, Yixing thinks about what kind of expression Yifan would be making right now and it makes him smile. “It's a meagre contribution to the cause but as long as it's appreciated, I will continue to do so.”

The man hums, visibly satisfied with his answer. “It’s far from a meagre contribution, Mr. Zhang, and, as far as I know, you're the best pianist in the country nowadays.” Li Xu Kun smiles once more, yellowish teeth appearing under his apparent friendly grin but something about the man feels off, making Yixing’s skin itch with discomfort. “And, if you allow me to speak in these terms, I think that your talent deserves better than concerts in a small room with poor acoustics. I can offer you a weekly performance at Beijing biggest concert hall and, if you wish, a whole tour across China. Hong Kong, Shanghai, every city of your choice and more.”

At the corner of his eyes, Yixing can feel the soldier observing him but he keeps his gaze solely on Li Xu Kun, aware that he has to be careful with his response. 

“You heard me once and you’re already offering me more than I deserve,” he offers a bashful smile, moving forward so his shoulders are slightly slouched in a humble position. “I don't know if I can meet your expectations.”

Yixing totally can but he is not about to say this, knowing that whatever the Communist Party wants from him cannot be just music. 

“So talented yet so humble!” the man laughs, voice loud in the small place and Yixing must force himself not to flinch, keeping his professional smile on despite wanting to punch Mr. Li. He feels uncomfortable and usually, his instincts are more trustworthy than shining promises. “On the contrary, I think you’re the man that we need, Mr. Zhang. Your talent is a gift to the nation and it’s my duty and my honour to make you this offer.”

The said offer is like a gift wrapped in shining gold leaves, but the present inside still is a threat, no matter how pretty the package is. Yixing smiles. 

“I would accept your generous proposition right away if my professionalism didn't oblige me to invite you to an exclusive performance I would prepare for you.” Mr. Li's eyebrows crease ever so sightly and Yixing smiles innocently, wide enough to make his dimples appear. There were many people’s weakness, or so he had heard. “I would be comfortable with accepting your offer only if I knew I could satisfy your expectations. Let me play for you again, Mr. Li.” 

The man seems to think about it for a second before beaming at Yixing, his yellow teeth showing again. “I’m sure it’s not necessary but I’m accepting your proposition, Mr. Zhang. Your seriousness is an example for all of us.” Li Xu Kun stands up and Yixing follows him suit, bowing a little while observing the soldier in the corner. The man’s face doesn’t betray anything. “No need to bow, Mr. Zhang!” Yixing straightens his position again, catching a scent of alcohol and powder on the man. A man who isn’t supposed to own a gun. “We will meet plenty of times, we don’t need to be so formal with each other. I will make sure to contact your professor to let her know about my schedule. I’m impatient to see what kind of performance you will prepare, Yixing.” 

The pianist’s smile is frozen in place, thankfully, and he bows once again to show his gratitude. 

Mr. Li and the soldier take their leave and while the stares they send in Yixing's direction are different, both make him clench his jaw. 

The beginning of this day could have been better. 

 

***

“Yifan, we’re in trouble.”

“You’re in trouble.”

“Yes, well.” Leisurely, Yixing lets himself fall on the living room couch, a favourite of his, inspired by European culture with delicate patterns of gold embroidery over cardinal tailored cushions, perfect when he wants to feel in control. And comfortable. “You're my friend and my servant so expect to be dragged into it." 

His friend eyes the furniture and Yixing with a disapproving glare before sitting down on a chair, a long, tired sigh escaping his mouth. The musician smirks; Yifan is used to these situations. 

“What kind of trouble?”

“Trouble involving your dear Communist Party of China?” Yifan’s eyebrows shot to his forehead as Yixing makes himself cosier on the couch. It is way better than a chair, Yifan must be a masochist. “They want me to play in the biggest cities in the biggest music halls because of my...” he smiles, “talent.”

“You’re very talented.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of that and while I would like for you to keep complimenting me, I’m afraid I don’t have the time.” Yixing continues, his voice an octave lower. “Something is off. And I’m not even speaking about this Li Xu Kun. I don’t know how tied with the Communist Party he actually is, but while he certainly has at heart the good of the nation, he also serves his own interests.”

“It’s funny,” Yifan begins, “how convincing you sound sometimes, I barely sense the irony anymore.” His servant makes his best to appear neutral but the hardness of his stare is difficult to miss. “Do not take kids glove with me, Yixing. I may be loyal to the cause and to the revolution but I’m loyal to you first.”

Yixing observes him quietly, maybe a moment too long – maybe not, but enough for his friend to let a glimpse of his nervousness appears. 

Yifan was never nervous when they were young, fishing and running around the village. He should have been sometimes, when Mr. Xiu would chase them away for picking his yuzu, broom in hand to chastise them. He should have been, the one time they were lost in a new city when they were forced to leave their village but no, he hadn't been, he simply smiled and shrugged, his hand warm in Yixing's. 

Only, his friend is nervous now. 

“I know,” he speaks softly, “this is why I’m telling you all of this.” He looks outside, still sensing the relieved sigh leaving Yifan’s mouth. “But first of all, we have more important things to occupy ourselves with.”

“More important than a threat from China’s government?”

New flowers have bloomed in the gardens. He wonders which one will survive the next few days.

Yixing nods. “Yes, a threat to the peace of the whole world.” 

With a knowing smile, the pianist closes his eyes as Yifan mutters a small oh no please, the prospect of having a conversation with invisible people upsetting him. Invisible for him at least because Yixing can perfectly see them, feel them, touch them and most importantly, hear them. 

“Hi there,” the cheerful voice makes him open his eyes, Baekhyun appearing in the middle of his living room like a puff of air, all smiles and strange clothes, his right hand waving at him. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

Yixing blinks to see the world through his soul buddy’s eyes, a busy street appearing in front of him. Aggressive shouting, flamboyant ads, hot dog's smell and bumping people are appearing in full colour, his world suddenly louder and different. He turns towards his friend who finishes paying for his unhealthy food (“This food is a national treasure, how dare you! If it’s good it’s healthy.”) before walking beside him. 

“Do you think you could find a place where you could talk to me without being called crazy?” Baekhyun laughs and takes a bite of his hot dog, mouthing around it loudly. “Baek, please.” 

“Yes, don’t worry, I will go to the park.” He has ketchup and mustard on the corners of his lips but Yixing will not say anything. Baekhyun eats like a pig and does not care most of the time. It is a wonder he still so cute and endearing. “By the way, will you join me here or are we going to your side?”

They have the ability to see the world through each other eyes thanks to their connection, to touch everything and feel everything the other is feeling if they want to. Even the hot dog, but the pianist is not really really fond of it. Baekhyun made him taste a hundred different plates, all greasy and equally unhealthy. And, even if it has no consequence on his body since he is not really there, he forbids himself from getting used to junk food. He loves his abs and arse way too much.

“My side,” the smell is strong with pollution even if they are approaching the park Baekhyun has been speaking about, gigantic trees welcoming them. These trees don’t exist in China. “Yifan is here.”

This is enough to make Baekhyun grins like a madman. “You know how to woo a man.”

They both smirk and Yixing closes his eyes to return to his side, feeling the smoothness of the red cushions under him and the protesting sounds of his friend, Yifan already knowing who joined them. 

“I hate it when you're going to the other side and I'm left here, alone, observing you doing a monologue,” Yifan grumbles. “I know you're actually speaking to someone else but still. Is Baekhyun really necessary?” 

“I knew he would be happy to see me!” Baekhyun beams and sits on Yifan's laps, even if the taller is unaware of that small detail. Yixing holds back a smirk. “Hello, my dear friend.” 

“Is he already here?” Baekhyun pokes at Yifan's scowling eyebrows, his finger trying to smooth the appearing wrinkle on the tender skin. The scene would be cute if they were actually friends or lovers but Yifan is not really fond of men and even less fond of Baekhyun. “Because if he is, he can stay to his side. We don’t need a stupid capitalist in this house.”

“Whoa, my feelings are hurt. I will need twice as many hamburgers and coke.” 

Yixing shakes his head. “He is here and more than happy to see you.” 

The answer of his servant is muffled – still looking a lot like ‘Well I’m not’ – by the apparition of two other people, more quiet, more distant with Yixing and each other. 

“Hello Junmyeon,” the man acknowledges him with a polite nod. “Hello, Minseok.” 

“I hope it's important,” Minseok says, his eyes trained on Junmyeon, wary. “I don't have much time.” 

Minseok’s uniform is covered in dirt and blood, his cat-eyes are sharp even if the man is clearly tired, the dark shadows under his eyes betraying his state. A gruesome cut on his left cheek is bleeding, the wound probably fresh. 

Yixing nods. “Yes, I would have liked for everyone to come,” a dark, unsympathetic glare tries to impale him on the spot and he feels his mouth flicking upward in a small smile. Minseok visibly does not like the beginning of this reunion. How surprising. “Even if it might be for the best that some people didn’t join us, isn’t it Minseok?”

“Careful, Zhang,” Minseok’s slashed upper lip is bleeding too, but it’s nothing compared to his bloody cheek. Yixing would be almost afraid for his carpet if he did not know better. It is an expensive carpet. “You better not start with that conversation.”

Yifan is clearly lost and probably wants to know what is going on but his friend is smart enough to not ask in the presence of Minseok. Even Baekhyun, who likes to joke and push people to their limits just curls on himself in Yifan’s laps, not liking the heavy atmosphere. 

“You’re right, I have more important things to talk about.” Yixing sits a little straighter on his couch, just to see Minseok’s eyes following him. 

“Is it about… this new person?” Junmyeon's voice is soothing, a sharp contrast with Minseok's, even though both of them are strong and imposing in their own way. “I felt… something in my room yesterday.”

Baekhyun and Minseok study him, one gaze gentler than the other to invite the man to develop further on. 

Only, Junmyeon does not and simply keeps his mouth closed, hands primly behind his back, expression neutral and somewhat detached. 

“Yes, it’s about him.” Yifan mouths ‘You’re finally speaking about Chanyeol?’ while Baekhyun caresses his servant’s cheek with one finger, completely at ease. As a friend, Yixing should step in and say something to Baekhyun but, as a childhood friend, he thinks Yifan deserves it and the show is pleasant to watch. “We have a new soul buddy. His name is Park Chanyeol.”

Baekhyun looks extremely pleased that someone uses his ‘appropriate term' but the same thing cannot be said about the two others, both of them frowning. 

“He is a threat, is this why you called us? Does he need to be tortured?” Minseok pronounces each word very slowly like he is already picturing the whole thing. He probably is. “From which country? Not that it always matters.” 

These last words were for Junmyeon and the man ignores them with a polite smile to Yixing. “Do you think he is interesting?” 

At this, the musician keeps his own expression neutral. The problem with Junmyeon is the different meanings he attributes to each word in his vocabulary and Yixing doubts it is a cultural difference. Minseok words are clear with no hidden meanings, no hidden intentions and yet they are both Korean. 

“We will see,” Chanyeol clearly is, but he saves this information for himself. “He is very hot in any case,” he smiles. “This is a capital information.”

Baekhyun cackles a bit and, if Yixing did not know that Yifan cannot see him, he would have attributed the weird face of his friend to the unexpected reaction. Only, Baekhyun is the only one amused, Minseok face darker than before. 

“And this is important? This is why you called us? Don’t fuck with me. I have a war to win, a country to fight for and you called us because of that? You’re just a dirty whore in need of attention, a queer who-”

Yixing smiles sweetly when he interrupts. “I called you because I wanted to warn you. You all know how precarious our situations is and that only one of us is enough to put the others in danger.” They are all painfully aware of that fact. “He deserves a chance to know.” Minseok keeps his mouth shut as Yixing lower his tone. “I will help him because I think he is not a threat, and educate him about us so he doesn’t become one.”

A drop of blood falls on the expensive carpet and Yixing is more than happy to know that, the moment Minseok will go, the blood will too. 

“Did you deduce that before or after you decided he could be a good fuck?” Minseok continues. “Because if he is a spy, if he-”

“I will take the whole responsibility if it’s the case.” Yixing’s stare hardens when he looks at the soldier, having difficulty keeping his own anger under control. Junmyeon is better at this than him despite his unwillingness to admit it. “But he needs to know. Must I remind you who took responsibility for you?” 

This is enough to make Minseok completely close his mouth. 

“I, hum,” Baekhyun finally speaks up and even if Yixing was aware of his presence the whole time, Junmyeon and Minseok seem to only acknowledge him now. “I don't know much about spies or anything but… Yixing is a good judge of character. You both know this and I trust him about this new guy.” His voice gains confidence as he pushes his arm around an unaware Yifan, using him like an anchor. “Besides, I would like to add that Yixing's sexuality has nothing to do with this conversation.”

Minseok makes a rapid step toward Baekhyun and the latter closes his eyes instantaneously, vanishing in the air as he came. Junmyeon sighs. 

“Well, it seems like it’s decided. Yixing, you’re free to do as you please. Having a new member could be useful in the future.” 

Minseok does not contradict Junmyeon and simply nods, both of them vanishing at the same time, no goodbye or anything close to it said. 

Somehow, it’s sad how they are all connected yet so distant and distrustful of each other. Even so, it is necessary and Yixing does not think it will change anytime soon. If truth be told, he is not sure he wants it to change. 

“Are they all gone?” the question is careful, Yifan probably trying to read the atmosphere surrounding the musician. 

A small smile. “Yes, Baekhyun sends his regards by the way. He likes you very much.”

It is enough to make his servant roll his eyes and leave the room muttering ‘If this American ever comes to China…' until he is out of hearing range, voice lost in the long corridors, leaving Yixing alone with his thoughts and the awaking garden outside. 

Dew covered flowers and blooming buds are touched by the sun, the same sun as this morning, a week ago, a year ago. He is thinking about planting a tree that will grow yuzu, but somehow, he knows it will not bring back his childhood. He looks at the closed door. It will not bring back the old Yifan. It will not change anything or perhaps only the daily life of some birds and insects. 

A sigh and he gets up to have a bath. He feels gross. 

 

***

A soft song fills the auditorium despite Yixing’s building anger, his fingers delicate on the white and black keys, his stare hard. 

Cheng Xiao is a lovely woman and excellent tutor, but she lacks the necessary judgment one needs to survive in the current society. This is why his professor was delighted by Mr. Li’s phone call and promised him that Yixing will prepare a stunning performance without delay, the date already scheduled. 

It will be in a fortnight. 

Yixing slams his hands on the piano keys, the loud babel hurting less than his thoughts. 

“I… Hello?” Yixing turns towards the careful voice next to his ears and is surprised to see Chanyeol, the man appearing more confused than him about his sudden appearance in the room. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt… or to come.” 

The man’s eyebrows crease a bit and Yixing wants to smooth it down with his thumb, even if his fingers are numb with practice, red with anger. 

The clothes worn by Chanyeol are clearly European even if the musician cannot pinpoint which country exactly. A country far enough from China in any case, as Chanyeol observes his surroundings with an awed glint in his eyes, forgetting his shyness for an instant. 

An instant only as the foreigner blushes when he meets Yixing’s stare, his shoulders slumping forward in a demure position. “I’m so sorry for interrupting you, I just followed the melody and...” 

The man cuts the sentence himself as if interrupted by a louder voice although there is only silence in the vast place. Only silence and the both of them, seated down on a piano bench, Yixing feeling his anger leaving him bit by bit as he observes Chanyeol by his side, the big eyes and big ears endearing.

“You like my music?” Chanyeol raises his head again as Yixing offers him a gentle smile, not one he would use on someone he intends to seduce but the Korean man seems to need the comfort. “It's not perfect yet but...” 

“It’s perfect!” Chanyeol blurts out. “I have been wondering for days from where it could come from, London doesn’t have this kind of music.” Britain then, another country Yifan will not be pleased about but it is not like the musician cares, his eyes following the shape of the sightly bombed lips. “And… I’m strangely happy it’s from you. You seem nice.”

Yixing is, once again, surprised by this man. While he has debatable reasons for wanting to know him, Chanyeol is honest with his words, warm brown eyes bright with hope. Yixing feels slightly overwhelmed. 

“I am nice. Do you want me to play again for you?”

Yixing does not know how many times he used that trick to woo men and women, all of them brought to tears by his music. Even if most of the time, he does not need music to make them cry. 

“Actually,” his deep voice is eager even if Chanyeol tries to tune himself down. “I was wondering if… you could teach me? I’m… I’m very fond of this song.”

Yixing doesn’t even know what to reply to this, going from surprise to surprise with Chanyeol. 

He remembers promising to the man that he will teach him whatever he wants to know about their strange bond, about the possibilities and responsibilities that come with it. But Chanyeol does not seem too curious or fazed by their situation, eyes set on the black piano as it is the seventh wonder of the world. 

“You play the piano?” An enthusiastic nod is enough of an answer, Chanyeol moving closer to the musician. Not that Yixing will complain. 

“I'm not a professional, but…” a fond smile, the man lost in his thoughts. “I love the piano.” 

Yixing is a good judge of character, it is true. This is why Chanyeol’s genuineness is making him bite on his lips, hesitating. He is no longer used to people without a mask and, even if Chanyeol probably has countless secrets, he likely is a better man than Yixing himself. Not that it is something complicated to achieve. 

The song starts again, his hands dancing on the keys as his eyes follow the curve of his soul buddy's jaw, Yixing's curiosity picked. Maybe Chanyeol will only be a beautiful boy, another one on his list, or maybe he will be something else, the warm brown eyes following each note with attention. 

The auditorium is filled with the soft melody once again, except this time Yixing feels at ease, the warmth at his side easing the weight on his shoulders, almost non-existent in this instant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You read the whole chapter? Whoa I'm proud of you :")


	3. Chapter 3

The library is mostly silent, students like him wandering from shelf to shelf to find the book that will help them with their papers.

 Chanyeol should be working on his own paper for his economics class but he is currently nose-deep in a book entitled “ _The Evolution of the Homo sapiens_ ", the wording, ideas and facts interesting enough to keep him reading. His finger follows a line in particular, introducing new theories of evolution, new possibilities. Only, despite being informative, the book doesn't have what Chanyeol is searching for; an explanation for his connection with Yixing. 

 An explanation for what he can do now. 

 It is not really superpowers. He would have loved superpowers when he was younger but this was not what he expected. It was about small things like hearing the wind blow harshly against his window when there is only blue sky and delicate zephyr outside, listening to music even though there is no radio in the room and seeing a handsome man playing the piano for him, smile wide enough to let dimples appear.

 It is knowing he can share or communicate across long distances without being detected or heard by anyone, have a conversation in two places simultaneously, flipping back and forth between his mansion and Yixing's garden or… bathroom. 

 The student blushes a little, trying to focus on the inked words. He remembers only too well the first time he has seen the Chinese man, black eyes and soft white abs imprinted behind his eyelids. It is not wrong to think about it as long as Chanyeol does not feel anything besides slight admiration, the only thing he can allow himself about the man or any man in general. 

 A look at his watch makes him sigh and pack his books. As much as he would like to continue his studying, he has to work tonight, the only pleasant thing about it being Kyungsoo’s presence. 

 Perhaps he would visit a new place around the world tonight too. 

 

***

 

 Chanyeol does not visit a new place this night or the night after.

 Attentive, he looks for signs of music, wind or even bomb noises but there is nothing. Nothing but himself and his mind, the man feeling strangely lonelier than usual. 

 He kept searching for interesting books in the library about human evolution, capacities and miracles but there are only so many books unrelated to economics in his university. He went as far as reading books on magic, a thing he would have done as a child but not now when he is a responsible adult. Or at least he thinks he is. He tries to be. 

 The last patrons of the night are leaving, John and Kyungsoo busy with their own work as Chanyeol wipes tables, his eyes wandering to the piano from time to time.

 “ _Chanyeol_ ,” the voice of his boss catches him off guard; Chanyeol blinks as he tries not to let it appear on his face even though he knows everyone can read him like an open book. 

 Mr. Smith’s haggard face appears in front of him, his white hair matching his grim face and too old sacks, the old man not caring the least for the way he looks at work. He cares only for his potted plants that are growing everywhere like spider webs and for his money, the look on his face saying a lot about the discussion of tonight. Chanyeol winces. 

 “ _Yes? Can I do something for you, Mr. Smith?_ ” 

 The man may be old and rough around the edges but he was nice enough to trust Chanyeol a few months ago and it means a lot to him. People tend to be disappointed in him without even letting him try so, even though he only wipes tables and prepares easy dishes, it is still important. It still means something to him. 

 “ _Yes._ ” The accent in his voice is thick with age and even if Chanyeol did not understand him very well at first, he grew accustomed to the half-eaten words and weird consonances. “ _The pianist we engaged a week ago is feeling unwell and I want you to play tomorrow. Can you do that?_ ”

 Chanyeol literally beams. 

 “ _Yes, of course, Mr. Smith!_ ” he could already feel his fingers twitch with anticipation and he has to force himself to calm down. “ _You know my love for music!_ ”

 Mr. Smith grumbles. “ _You’re so loud sometimes, kid. And I won’t give you extra money for tomorrow,_ ” he points a chubby finger at Chanyeol, “ _and it's only for tomorrow, remember that. You're not a bad kid but the professional is better than you._ ”

 “ _I know I know. I will not disappoint you, Mr. Smith._ ” 

 The old man grumbles once more and leaves to attend his potted plants, his figure somewhat incongruous in the bar. Indeed, his boss usually does not leave his work office, not that Chanyeol really cares at the moment, a smile forming on his lips. 

 Maybe tomorrow night, someone will appreciate his songs, his melody, his style. Maybe someone will smile at him and clap; understand. Maybe that someone will be in the crowd or thousands of kilometres away from London. His mind supplies him with the image of Yixing, all dimples and grand gestures. 

 The table is pristine clean – or at least, as clean as it could be – and Chanyeol unties his apron. He wants Yixing to listen. 

 

***

 

 The piano is far from being in good shape, the black varnish colour long faded and scratches on the sides speaking loud of how little care for the instrument people had before Chanyeol's arrival, the man polishing each part every time he has the chance. Kyungsoo often grumbles about him being obsessed. 

 It is not in good shape but it is good enough **.** Chanyeol is relieved from duty as he practices for his performance, Kyungsoo's scowl deeper than usual (“I have to do all these hamburgers or whatever by myself! On a Saturday evening!”) but it's mostly for the show. Deep down, the cook is secretly pleased with the perspective of tonight's performance, knowing only too well how happy Chanyeol is when he plays.

 And really, Chanyeol is. The piano has always been a constant in his life, whether he was at his grandma’s house in Damyang, feet dangling from the seat and his arms almost too short to reach all the piano keys, or now in Britain, shoulders slouched forward in concentration and attempt to make himself appear smaller than he really is. 

 Music, unlike material possession, can be transported anywhere and, when they had nothing left after the Second World War, when they didn't know what to do or where to go, music was there, playing loud in his head while his fingers were tapping silent sounds on every surface he could find. 

 Still, he likes it the best when a piano is singing under him, telling his story to others, the black and white keys the paper and ink pen a writer needs to express himself. He feels the same.

 So he practices and practices again, until the night comes, the bar filling with patrons, his fingers never stopping from twitching even when he has to help backstage.

 

***

 

 The bar is nearly full now, people laughing good-naturedly after a long day of work, beer or wine in hand while waiters weave in and out of the room, empty or full glasses on their platers. 

 Chanyeol’s music is upbeat in the packed room, a British composition well-known by everyone in the city who likes to spend time outside of their cramped apartment or too big mansions; salarymen, London labourers and exhausted university students swaying with the music and strong alcohols. 

 A couple of students are near him, one of the boys dancing slowly – hips moving in a lazy pace with his chop of beer in a hand and a cigarette in the other – enjoying the beat. It is a common song, really, and people are naturally drawn, enough to make Chanyeol smile. 

Enough for him to change to a Korean song right after, one he has practiced since he can remember sitting on a piano bench. The rhythm is slower, nostalgic for him but happy for the patrons, most of them just continuing their chatter without care. But Chanyeol closes his eyes an instant, reaching for Yixing, knowing how to connect with the other pianist now. 

 Slowly, he starts hearing foreign sounds, sounds that are definitely not from the bar and his lips twitch up. His fingers are playing with muscle memory and he allows himself to open his eyes, the setting in front of him unexpected. 

 It is not Yixing’s bathroom, living room or even auditorium. It is a battlefield. 

 He is playing piano in the middle of the war, people screaming at each other, bomb falling from the sky and sub-machine gun’s bullets passing through soldiers like a needle in a cloth. Chanyeol closes his eyes to escape the horrible scenery. 

 Except he cannot and, when he opens his eyes again, he almost chokes on air at the view of a man lying near him, blood all over his face and a leg missing. The dying man is clearly Asian and Chanyeol cannot help the dread plumbing his stomach down, knowing only too well where he is, why his family escaped after the Second World War. 

 The Korean War. 

 His fingers are hitting the keys wrongly now but he cannot bring himself to care, the odour of blood, metal and death so strong it burns his nose, his eyes humid with powder and horror, men falling on the soil like his fingers on the piano, wrongly, pitifully, dead. 

 “You’re not really there...” he murmurs to himself, his whole body shaking when a new bomb drops two hundred meters away, men screeching in pain and anger, Chanyeol’s eyes filling with tears. “You’re not here.”

 But someone like him, someone who can connect to others _is_ here and he slowly tries to block all of it, he tries to return to London, to keep playing but he cannot hear himself think, not when the whisper of flying bullets is the only thing he can focus on, peal of thunder and men’s screams of agony shaking him like a leaf, the dying man next to him now dead. 

 Lying on earth as though sleeping, the soldier's face almost has a calm expression, unlike Chanyeol, still witnessing the hell around him. 

 “Who the fuck are you?” 

 At first, the pianist thinks it is a soldier speaking to another until he realises the man standing in front of him, eyes dark and gun in hand. “I said,” the safety is removed and while Chanyeol knows he cannot die, he is also aware he can feel everything. “Who the fuck are you?”

 The soldier is now pressing the cannon barrel at his head and Chanyeol really _really_ wants to cry. “My name is Park Chanyeol and I really didn't want to come here.” 

 The man is covered in blood and dirt too, but it is probably not his, not the way he is standing, strong and threatening, his weapon hurting Chanyeol at each passing second, pushing the metallic canon against his skin. 

 “Korean name yet a pussy attitude. You’re with the South I’m sure,” the man digs the gun farther and Chanyeol has to cant his head, clutching on his pants to not let a noise escape his mouth. “You’re a fucking dishonour, looking at you already sickens me,” the high cheek-bones are covered in dirt, the man’s breath too near for Chanyeol’s comfort. “And it pisses me off knowing that I cannot kill you, but...” orders are given around them, the whole landscape looking like it had been stripped of nature, of humanity. There are only monsters and dead bodies left. “I can make you suffer.”

 The threat is enough to make Chanyeol close his eyes again and pray to return to London only to be thrown onto the ground, the soldier kicking him in the face, a strangled cry escaping his bruised mouth. Blood and tears are on his tongue and the taste almost makes him gag, the lingering pain in his head hurting him more than he thought possible. It hurts, it fucking hurts and yet he knows he is not really here, but he feels the pain in his cheek, and the following one in his shoulders when the man standing above him hits him with his weapon, a scream he did not know he could make escaping from his throat. 

 “A crying pussy,” Chanyeol never felt a pain like this, his shoulders burning him like someone set it on fire. The man above him does not seem fazed by his own acts, on the contrary, he is almost pleased. Never in his life was Chanyeol this afraid of someone, thinking his father was the worst he will ever have to deal with. He has been wrong. “You don't even have the decency to shut your mouth.” 

 Another blow to his face is enough to make him trash on the ground, his senses going haywire, wanting to cut himself from this nightmare, to escape this awful reality. 

 He does. Chanyeol fucking does. But when he opens his eyes again, he is on the bar floor, a hundred eyes on him and the piano completely destroyed, his hands covered in blood. 

  

***

 

Chanyeol does not try to reach for Yixing, for anything. He lost his job, he did not get his pay (“ _Were you expecting anything after destroying the piano? After making a scene? Get out of here!_ ”) and does not even dare going out of his mansion except for his classes, shame and dread clenching on him like the hands of that soldier, hitting him right in the face every time he steps out.

 Carefully, Chanyeol touches his face, scratching his skin but nothing comes off. There is nothing. A wince. 

 He is a failure. 

 

*** 

 

 Their home was occupied by Londoners before. 

 Maybe their mansion was a happy place at the time, with running blond children, a cooking mother with an advertisement-like smile and a tired father, content to come back home at sunset. Only, this beautiful image is far away from their actual family. They are not blond, they do not smile and Chanyeol actually dreads the sunset, knowing his weekly dinner with his whole family is tonight. 

 His whole family except his sister Yura chose to stay in Korea with their grandmother. Chanyeol does not even know if she is alive. 

 The ceiling of the salon is high enough to put at waste the effort of the burning fire, the red flames licking the windows of the fireplace black. Black like the dress his mother is wearing tonight, already seated at her place, back straight, eyes on the window, like a dying old doll. 

 “Mother,” Chanyeol greets, his own tone queer in the vast room. He wants to go to his room, to hide under his blankets and forget the loss of his ‘small moments’, the loss of the only place he could see people smiling at him.

 He destroyed a piano. With his own hands. 

 A piano. 

 “Chanyeol, come and sit down, will you? Your father will be home soon.” 

 Mr. Smith, John, Kyungsoo or the patrons, nobody will ever smile at him now. It’s over. 

 Chanyeol bites the inside of his cheek to suppress his emotions, barely noticing his mother’s order. She did not attempt to strike up a conversation in English which is weird but not enough for him to care. He takes a seat in front of her; the burning fire livelier than she is. 

 “You quit your job.” 

 It was not a question. Also, the voice is too gentle to hide the underlying truth, his mother knows. She knows perfectly. 

 “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” the bite in his tone is far from hidden. He does not care. 

 No answer is offered and she resumes looking outside the window, behind her son or maybe through him. He is probably transparent enough. 

 They fall in an awkward, uncomfortable yet familiar silence as they wait for Chanyeol’s father, both of them unmoving, not even by an inch. It is almost funny – almost – as Chanyeol remembers very well how active he was when he was little, his mother encouraging him with big gestures and funny faces, always a drop of green, yellow or blue paint on her cheek, painting canvas after canvas. 

 Now, the only canvas he sees is her white face, devoid of any emotions.

 “ _I’m home._ ” Chanyeol closes his eyes an instant to compose his face before opening them, his father stepping inside. “ _You may remain seated, let’s eat._ ” 

 The dinner was put under a dish cover, the Lancashire hotpot still fuming once the metallic dome was removed, the odour surely appetising for his family but Chanyeol’s stomach is already full, weighted down by his anxiety to have to sit in the same room as his parents. 

 “ _Chanyeol_ ,” his father begins once he is served, his plate bursting with mutton meat topped with sliced potatoes, unlike Chanyeol’s plate which is pitifully empty in comparison. His mother knows perfectly how little he eats when he is with them. He bites the inside of his cheeks. “ _How are your grades?_ ”

 Sometimes, his mother indulges Chanyeol and speaks Korean with him but his father does not permit it in his presence. Ever. Their native language is almost taboo between these tall walls, awfully grand sometimes, awfully narrow right now when breathing becomes difficult, his father's stare hard on him. 

 “ _I have full marks in almost all my classes._ ”

 As much as Chanyeol does not like economics, he is a good student and knows better than to disappoint his father further than he already does on a daily basis. Even his mother cannot do anything when his father is angry at him, hiding somewhere in the kitchen and closing her eyes and ears. 

 “ _I hope for you that it’s the case,_ ” he serves himself another spoonful of meat; Chanyeol munching strenuously on his own potatoes. It tastes nothing like Kyungsoo's cooking. It tastes nothing like home. " _You will begin to work with me on Monday when you don't have class._ ” 

 Chanyeol lets his fork fall. “ _I…_ ” 

 “ _My dear wife told me you don’t have your other job anymore._ ” Chanyeol sends a quick look to his mother but her eyes are set on her plate. “ _And I won’t allow you to slack off. You will start Monday and train by my side._ ” 

 “ _Father, with all due respect..._ ” 

 “ _I don’t want to hear it. It is an order, Chanyeol, not a suggestion. Now let me enjoy your mother’s cooking._ ” 

 It is not Chanyeol’s place to go against his father’s wishes so he shuts his mouth, his teeth hurting with how much pressure he puts on them. It is not his place to say anything yet he wants to, he wants to because if he starts to work with his father, there will be no more ‘small moments’. It will be work, work and work and then his degree, his marriage with Katherine and more work. 

 He looks at his hands, still bandaged. 

 “ _Darling, how was your day?_ ” his mother asks with her heavy accent, hands resting neatly on the table. 

 His parents exchange a few words while Chanyeol is stuck looking at his plate. He knows he can always buy a piano once he is married to Katherine, free to play his music in _his_ four walls, where nobody would witness his songs. As nice as his fiancée is, she will not stay. She will not listen. She might sit and smile but her mind will be elsewhere, far away from Chanyeol and his need for recognition. His life is all mapped out, normal, and while he never dares to question it, the gulp in his throat is enough for him to push all the food away. Everything is already planned out. 

 Chanyeol is so lost in his thoughts he does not notice his mother taking his plate alongside hers, leaving him alone with his father and their narrowing walls, the light outside now only a memory in the darkening sky. 

 “ _I should say that I’m disappointed you don’t show more excitation to work with me but I’m far from surprised._ ” His father is still eating, grease shining around his mouth as Chanyeol redirects his stare on the table. He wants to go to bed even if it is not the time yet. “ _You have a job assured at the company. Many men would dream of this but of course for you, it's not enough._ ” He clicks his tongue. “ _It’s time you become a man, Chanyeol. I thought keeping you away from any piano would help but apparently not. What can I do now, I wonder?_ ”

 He wants to sleep. Or maybe not really, but he could use the escape of slumber right now. 

 “ _I..._ ”

 “ _It was a rhetorical question. I don't expect you to answer. I don't want you to answer. Not when you're still a boy who doesn't look me in the eye._ ” The sudden drop of his tone is enough of a warning for Chanyeol to level his eyes with his father’s, the fat around his eyes almost eating his judging stare; black pupils on him. “ _That’s better. We will see each other on Monday. Your only answer is a ‘yes father.’_ ”

 “ _Yes, father._ ” 

 “ _Good._ ” 

 The word almost makes him flinch but Chanyeol still keeps his head up, knowing the dinner will be over soon. Only a few more minutes. 

 “ _I expect you to put to good use the money we’re investing in your studies. Don’t disappoint me further than you already do._ ” 

 Chanyeol furrows his eyebrows. 

 “ _In what way..._ ”

 “ _I didn’t ask you to talk,_ ” his father finally finishes his plate and reaches for his glass of red wine, the bottle next to it mentioning for the delicacy and sweetness of the two years old alcohol. France. “ _You’re always so loud._ ”

 Chanyeol is sure, whoever produced that wine in France did not expect it to be drank so tastelessly, his father loud draught enough to keep his mother at distance. As much as his father acts like a proper man, his eating habits are awful and the reproachful scowl his mother is wearing sometimes is the only thing that makes dinner bearable; somewhat ironic.

 Still, the man is imposing and Chanyeol chooses his words carefully. “ _You didn’t, but I want to ask in what way I disappointed you this time?_ ”

 “ _This time?_ ” his father has a dry laugh. “ _You didn’t even say anything when I asked you to say ‘yes father’ like a good boy. Because it’s all you are, a good boy. Not a man who has guts._ ”

 “ _You’re contradicting yourself, father. Maybe you should go easier on the wine._ ” 

 Chanyeol knew, the moment the words left his mouth, he just made a really, big mistake. Still, he is not afraid of his father’s wrath like he should be, gruesome images of the battlefield still lingering in his mind. 

 “ _What?_ ” his father calmly says. Too calmly. “ _You think you have something to say in the matter?_ ”

 Chanyeol really does not know where his confidence is coming from. Usually, he would be terrified but he is feeling calm, calmer than he has in days.

 “ _It is a rhetorical question again or are you expecting an actual answer?_ ”

 His father throws the glass against the wall, big splashes of red covering the creamy wallflower and Chanyeol almost scoffs at the action, wondering why he is usually afraid of that old man. Then, he asks himself why he _isn’t_ afraid of his father now when he has every reason to be. 

 “ _You're going to speak me in a different tone or I swear…_ ”

 “ _So I'm allowed to speak now? Well, I understand, I do have a marvellous voice. Very deep and sexy._ ”

 Chanyeol should be mortified. Never in his life has he spoken these kinds of words, never has he disrespected his father like this. He doesn’t understand why his tongue seems to have a life of its own now, words rolling out of his mouth without his consent. Still, he feels calm, relaxed, maybe too much in front of his angry father, his face now as red as the wasted wine. 

 “ _You’re going to regret every word, you’re..._ ”

 “Darling, please!” his mother switches to Korean, entering the salon with a straight mouth and glowing eyes. “Let the boy alone. You started all of this. You asked for it. Let him be.” 

 The student does not remember the last time his mother sided with him, probably when they were still in Korea, when she was brave and alive. And even if she is far from the woman she used to be a few years ago, a similar determination is swimming underneath her usually neutral eyes, glimmering in the dim room. 

 His father must be sensing it because he does not scream at her for speaking in Korean. He does not scream at all and simply sits down again. “ _Monday. Don’t be late._ ”

 Chanyeol leaves the room, fighting the satisfied smirk that wants to bloom on his face – he is not one to smirk! – and realises, when he steps outside of the sitting room, that the walls are far from narrow. They are tall, majestic. The narrowness came from his father’s mindset, somewhat pitiful at the table. 

 He goes to his chamber. 

  

***

 

 Five minutes later, Chanyeol slowly lets the conversation in the dining room sink in, his face growing paler and paler at each passing second. What the _hell_ has he been thinking about? 

 He is sitting on his bed, hands around his knees and eyes wide open. What the hell? 

 “We can communicate with each other, remember?” 

 At the soft voice, the student turns around, the sensual roll of the consonants now familiar to him. The bathroom is also familiar, big enough to engulf his mansion’s bedroom twice, white tiles and warm water meeting him, the student realising too late he is _in_ the bath with Yixing, droplet falling from the inky hair to his white torso. The bathroom is way too hot. 

 “Chanyeol, I’m beginning to think you like to see me naked.” A languid smile stretches the pink lips. Yixing lets his head rest on his flushed knees, and Chanyeol is left with sputtering some unintelligible words. 

 “I’m… I’m so sorry!” he can feel the flush of his neck eating him up, the warm water soaking his clothes shoulder-deep, his white cotton shirt clinging to him like a second skin. A very warm second skin. “I didn’t intend to come… even less to see you like this...”

 The dark eyes on him are not threatening although Chanyeol still bites his bottom lip, newfound nervousness shaking him in the wide bathroom. 

 “Why? Am I not beautiful enough to be seen naked?” Yixing tilts his head on the side, his white neck on display; charcoal eyes locked on the man facing him. 

 “N-no...” he waves his hands in front of him, the flush from his neck now spreading to every part of his body. “You’re really pretty… I mean...”

 Yixing smiles softly, dimples showing on his cheeks. 

 “I’m the one who reached out for you, Chanyeol,” the steam rises slowly from the water, softening Yixing’s appearance even more even if the Korean man tries his best not to stare. “or… connected with you even if I didn’t really intend to either.” The water is so warm and Chanyeol would feel light-headed if it wasn’t for the dark eyes set on his face, analysing him. “I already told you we can share, communicate with each other, gain each other skills, languages, but our emotions connect toosometimes.”

 He moves a little, loosening up his arms around his legs, elbow flushed red like his knees, his expression peaceful even though he is naked in a bath will a fully clothed man, Chanyeol's cheeks still flamed red. 

 “So… you were feeling…”

 Chanyeol does not want to pry, knowing only too well how distressed he was downstairs, knowing only too well how ashamed of himself he was. 

 Yixing does not answer right away, his wet mouth parted for some seconds. “Yes. I have my own… problems.” He furrows his eyebrows, Chanyeol’s heart missing a beat. The water is really hot. “But then I saw how your father was belittling you and I kind of...”, a smile, “spoke out for you? I know it wasn’t my place to do so but… I couldn’t help myself.”

 “It’s okay.” The student responds and is surprised by how sincere he is. “It felt good to… answer back for once. Even if it wasn’t really me,” he downcasts his eyes on his wet pants, his fingers trying to fiddle with the fabric. “I’m actually thankful.”

 “You’re an interesting man, Chanyeol,” at his bemused expression, the pianist continues. “Not a lot of people would accept to be controlled. And believe me, I understand them, it can be very dangerous. It’s so easy to mess someone’s else life.”

 “But you wouldn’t do that to me.” It was not a question; his eyes levelled with Yixing’s again. “I know you wouldn’t.”

Yixing takes longer to answer this time, enough for Chanyeol to become aware of their closeness, his feet maybe ten centimetres away from Yixing’s. 

 “I wouldn’t, but other people might. This bond doesn’t only have advantages.”

 “I know...I met someone else unintentionally.” If he was not already surrounded by hot water, he might have wanted a blanket around his shoulders to narrate this event. “I don't know his name but… he was in Korea and...” he almost hopes that Yixing will cut him in his speech but the other man does not. Chanyeol would have accepted it. He is used to it. Still, it feels weirdly good to know that someone is listening to him, or maybe it is just the warmth of the water speaking. “It was just so scary. A man died beside me and the soldier, the one who could see me, he started to...”, he bites his bottom lip. “I just wanted to see you at that time.”

 Yixing exhales – loudly – and sets his head right in the hollow between his knees, the man appearing even smaller than before. Chanyeol averts his eyes elsewhere. The white tiles are pretty. “You probably met Jongdae. If it was Minseok, it would have been better, I guess. Jongdae is from North Korea and _must_ be avoided. He is really dangerous.”

 “How… how many people are… connected?” Chanyeol’s eyes slid to their corners as he flicks a brief glance in Yixing’s direction before looking at the tiles again. If he feels dizzy, it is certainly because he is still hungry – and the water is baking him alive. 

 “I can’t really say, more people might join us in the future but…”, the man lets his voice trail as the student finally finds the courage to look up, only to observe the roll of a droplet from his collarbone, falling into the water two seconds later. “Including me and you, seven people. Still, it can change in the future.”

 Chanyeol hums, or at least, tries to. “Are some of them nice?”

 “I’m nice.” A wink and the student’s blush might just have worsened. “But yes. One of them is nice enough. I’m sure you will like him. Well, less than me, but still.”

 At this point, Chanyeol is sure to be as red as a tomato, his fingers wrinkled with heated water. 

 “What is his name?”

 The pink lips open but no answer is given right away, Yixing apparently amused by something. “Baekhyun.”

 And it’s only then, for some weird reason, that Chanyeol realises that their feet are touching. No more space left between them. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I quite like this chapter. I like seeing Chanyeol and Yixing in a bath. Sometimes, I almost want to forget the plot only to write about the both of them naked, in warm water with bubbles. I think I have a kink. *shy smile*   
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

The streets are packed, bursting with life and different people, gasoline odour blending with food’s, people’s perfume and sweat, Baekhyun absolutely loving all of it.

He avoids a small dog and grins wide, waving his hand in the direction of the family before jumping on the stairs leading him to his lovely work place. Or at least he tells so to the frowning man at the front desk everyday, offering a boxy smile and quick apology – because he is always late.

Not his fault if everyday something new comes up on his way: an old lady to help cross the road (okay, maybe she was not that old, twenty-five at most but she was sexy), a thief trying to rob a young woman (okay, it was just a child trying to taste the woman’s ice cream yet again she was sexy) and today a vehicle almost ran him over (okay, it was a pushchair. A dangerous pushchair but Baekhyun forgave the mum, she was hot). So much adventures yet so little compassion from his colleagues, already displeased with him.

“Byun! You’re late!”

This is the voice of his boss – less lovely this one – but Baekhyun is all smiles anyway.

“You will never believe what happened to me this morning, boss, I was...”

“I don’t care” is the flat answer, the gaze of his boss unwavering. “But I care very much about the article on environmental issues I asked you to finish yesterday.”

“Yesterday? Are you sure about this?”

Of course his boss is sure about this but Baekhyun just blinks innocently, his hands primly behind his back. Actually, he wanted to finish that goddamn paper yesterday night but then this beautiful lady in the bar – yes, he enjoys working in a bar – asked him for a drink and who is he to refuse her? You do not say no to beauties, it is his first rule.

“Baekhyun, I swear to god if I don’t have this paper by noon, I will fire you!”

“Nah.” He slips behind his desk, ignoring the way his desk seat mate is judging him. “You love me too much. It will be done, don’t worry.”

His boss grumbles a ‘ _this kid I swear…_ ’ before heading back to his own desk. Baekhyun finally turns toward his neighbour, his friend, his dear nice buddy, his saviour, his other cheek, his…

“You know that staring at me like that won’t make me help you?”

“But Sehuuuuuun,” he whines, tugging on his friend’s sleeve. “I will never finish this stupid article in time if you don’t help me. Come on, I’ll treat you in exchange.”

“The last time you said that, you treated me to hot dogs.” Sehun huffs. “Hot dogs.” He stresses the words again. “It’s a few dimes! You’re so cheap!”

“Hot dogs are sacred food, you will respect and cherish them.” His friend groans and shakes his head, his newly cut hair no longer falling into his eyes. “But anyway, I’ll treat you to something else if you cannot appreciate them so help me, please?” He offers Sehun his friendliest smile.

“Go out with me.” A blank face answers him and Sehun rolls his eyes. “Not like that, you idiot! Go out with me at a bar or something and do your magic with women. I need to get laid.”

Now, Baekhyun has what he calls his devilish – but sexy – smile. “Deal.”

Sehun merely nods before taking out a new notebook.

“Okay, let’s do this.

 

***

  
As much as Baekhyun appears idle – it is _joyful_ , thank you very much – he got his degree in journalism with merits and got employed at the New York Times as an intern thanks to his impressive history – and smiles, of course.

Munching on his third hamburger of the week – it is Tuesday – he reviews his last article, deeming it good enough to be seen by his boss. The finished paper is near his typewriter, some key letters almost erased on the old machine, like the ‘A’, ‘E’ and the ’S’. Baekhyun needed to look twice at what he was writing during the first months, but now he just needs to look out for the ketchup menacing to escape from his delicious burger and stain his paper or his white shirt.

“Baek, you’re actually disgusting when you eat.”

“I’m cute. A lot of people say so.” He counters, taking an open-mouthed bite of his burger, making a lot of munching noises just to annoy Sehun. “Besides, shouldn’t you worry about editing Mr. Harris paper? I know it’s due for tomorrow’s edition.”

“Shut up.”

“I will assume it’s going very well.”

Sehun was hired a few months after him and, the moment Baekhyun laid his eyes on him, he made his personal mission to become his friend. He needs tall people around to emphasise his cute appearance – although he will admit: Sehun is more than just broad shoulders and model stature.

“You could help me, you know. You’re not that bad at editing.”

“I’m sorry, you’re interrupting my date with my lovely hamburger.” He makes a kissing sound at the half-eaten sandwich. “I think I’m going to propose.”

All this juicy tomatoes, tender meat, fresh salad…

“Why am I expecting any help anyway…”

Indeed, Baekhyun wonders. Sehun should know, after all this time, that he runs away from work faster than he runs after women.

This is why, two hours later, his article handed to his grumpy boss and his friend left behind (“I don’t even want to hear you, I can feel your happiness from a mile away.”), he is back in the street, grinning at the idea of jogging in Central Park, the sunny weather helping his mood. As much as he loves junk food – that he wants to rename Heaven food – he knows he will regret the weight gain if he does nothing. Besides, he has way too much energy to spend to stay home.

His jogging bag already packed this morning, he heads directly for the popular park, leaving the city behind. Almost.

Music is the first thing he hears, an old man playing the saxophone with energy, fast tempo and rapid changes of keys, Baekhyun already feeling the need to run. It is a beautiful day.

He approaches a bench, changes and spins on himself.

Running shoes: check. T-shirt: check. Bag next to the weird-looking tree: check.

He starts running.

  
***

  
Drenched in sweat, Baekhyun still manages to smile brightly when he descries a familiar figure, the man smaller than him – not by much but hey, still smaller – the skin white enough to make most of his peers cringe even though Baekhyun enjoys the sight. It is like snow and they do not have much of it nowadays.

“Sunbathing in Central Park?” are his first, very intelligent, very well thought words, and by the big, frustrated sigh the man lets out through his full lips, Baekhyun assumes his question is widely appreciated. “It’s not like you see the sun much where you are. Did you see the movie Dracula?”

“I was actually praying for you to miss me.”

“I did miss you, dear.” Baekhyun’s smile widens and he sits by his friend, his soul buddy, his lovely little snowball, his…

A deadpan look meets his eyes.

“Let me reword this for you: I was hoping for you to not see me.”

“How could I when you are shining like a snowman?”

“I didn’t see Dracula and we use the term ‘film’ in our country.”

Oh right. “Well, we should watch this _film_ ,” the word rolls on his tongue with just the right amount of playful mockery and the man rolls his eyes. “Together then, I think I-”

“God, I’m already exhausted by your babbling and it’s only been thirty seconds.”

“Happy to see you too, Kyungsoo.”

A grumble answers him and for an instant Baekhyun thinks it is his own stomach – he is always hungry after all – but the frowning black eyebrows and tight lips are enough of an answer: he smiles.

“Seriously though, I like spending time with you. You should come more often when we meet between soul buddies.”

“Soul buddy.” Kyungsoo tastes the words like a bad hamburger, one Baekhyun could get at two in the morning. “I still cannot believe you got away with this denomination. It makes us look like a joke.” He lets his large eyes fall on the grass below them. “Maybe we’re one.”  
  
“Are you sad?” Kyungsoo spins his head toward him so suddenly Baekhyun is left blinking dumbly in front of the serious eyes, wondering an instant if they brought London’s rain with them.

“Why are you asking?”

“I-I don’t know, you just...” he takes a deep breath. He must be disgusting yet Kyungsoo is still near him. “You could come more often if you are? Not that you are sad now… hummm… it is presumptuous of me to assume things.”

This, for a strange reason, makes the man smiles. “You know how to use the word presumptuous?”

“Hey!” Baekhyun pouts. “Must I remind you I’m a journalist? Writing is my speciality!”

“That and whining.” Kyungsoo lets his dark eyes fall on Baekhyun’s lips an instant before shaking his head, smiling. “You’re like an overgrown puppy.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re a cat person and this isn’t a compliment but I will take it anyway.”

Kyungsoo rolls his eyes and Baekhyun uses the moment to finally drink water, his cheeks still flushed with effort.

“Actually...” Kyungsoo starts before biting on his plush bottom lip, eyes on the soil. “I...” he grunts again and shakes his head. “Does your offer for this Dracula movie still stand?”

Baekhyun nods happily, his legs swinging back and forth. “Of course!” Then, as if the universe had just told him an amazing secret, he breaks into his biggest grin of the day. “You said movie! Kyungsoo, I’m so pr-”

“Oh shut up.”

  
***

The time is ticking by, slowly, rapidly, stories are written in this time while others finish or never begin. Junmyeon believes his own time is disconnected from reality sometimes, and as he searches salvation in his lonely world, violent stabs from the ticking pendulum brings him back after a blink too long, the world hushed around him but utterly, completely, terrifying to him.

Junmyeon looks at the wall on his right, the picture of his dear wife hanging there. He can do this.

  
***

  
The body is lifeless and, contrary to popular belief, bodies don’t always look peaceful. No, civilians see them proper, white, with flowers arranged around the head like a halo. What Minseok sees is a halo of blood, merging with mud and probably crap. He keeps his face blank as he observes the corpse. It would not be surprising if the dead soldier shat himself, the muscles of the bladder and rectum relaxing after death, fucking diarrhoea leaking out of them. He learned that the hard way one year down the line.

How heroic. How wonderful it is to die for the country when you are left in your own shit, when you are left on your own.

“Sergeant Kim.” A nameless soldier salutes him but Minseok does not pay attention, his face still on the corpse. There is no fucking way he will end up like this. “We got a telegram from a different division. An enemy division force avoided our troops and choose to take a longer path by the East.”

Fucking North Koreans. Fuck them all.

“What does the major want us to do?” his voice is harsher than he intends it to be. Then again, the nameless soldier probably does not care.

“Major Dong is currently discussing it with the Americans, Sergeant, and requires your presence.”

“I understand. At ease.” The soldier lets his hand down, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “You can go back to your post.”

As he walks, he sees other soldiers burying bodies, their last fight only a few hours prior, ammo scattered around them like a reminder of how many were shot, how many soldiers lost their lives, how many more will in the next months.

Minseok used to care for the enemy, as fucked up as it seems now. They were one country, one population. Now, he could barely think of the other side as people. They only share some features and the same language. Nothing more.

He arrives rapidly at the meeting point in an old stone house, half destroyed, the roof damaged and a wall down, three people bending over a map on a wooden box. Tables are now a luxury they cannot offer themselves, who would have thought.

“You requested to see me, Major.” Major Dong turns toward him and nods at his salute, dismissing the gesture with a wave of hand.

“Yes.” Minseok takes a step toward the map, recognising the big red line immediately: the 38th parallel, the line separating North and South, still changing from day to day, hour to hour, but mostly consistent these last few weeks, the Americans’ intervention helping.

“ _Your major has trouble understanding some of our words. We are asking you to translate our exchanges until our translator is feeling better._ ”

Minseok’s face is neutral but his blood is boiling. One of the advantages of the bond with the others is the ability to acquire languages and his fluency in English did not escape the Americans. His eloquence in the language is more valuable to them than his strategy advices or combat skills. He is just another pawn.

“ _Yes, my colonel._ ”

It is what he is: a fucking pawn. So he opens his mouth when asked and fucking pray for Baekhyun or whoever is fluent in English in their group to stay on their side or he will attempt to murder one of them. The red line on the map is glowing at him and he is not in the mood.

He lost a friend today.

  
***

  
Days – months – living in disastrous living conditions taught Jongdae many things. One of them was to ignore the putrid odour of the corpses, another was to stop crying over the dead and a last one was to completely and utterly abandon himself in the commands of his superiors.

This is why, when they ask him to obtain information from a South Korean soldier, he does not even bat an eyelid. He became good, very good, at obtaining information. He enjoys it, even.

Sometimes, when they come across a pond of water, Jongdae barely recognises himself. Sunken cheeks, baby fat lost and eyes dark, he never was this man. Yet again, he is not sure he is a man anymore and does not care.

A tool does not need to think. It needs to obey and this is exactly what he does and, if violence and murder can bring pleasure to him, he will take it.

  
***

  
It is raining, like always. Some days, it is a soft drizzle, light enough for Londoners to keep walking without opening their umbrellas, the droplets barely noticed. Some other days, it is a violent deluge, the calm days extinguishing themselves in a rush of wailing winds, harsh rain and muddy streets, exposing the hands and faces of the citizens to the harsh bite of April, even though this month should announce spring.

Some days, like today, are just a cold shower, enough to make the tiles of his rooftop sing, Kyungsoo still feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin.

Baekhyun swore to find a telerecording to watch Dracula together, (“It’s one of my favourite film even if it’s a bit old.” “Twenty years, Baekhyun. Dracula was released in 1931.” His friend gaped at him, his eyes blinking twice. “ _Twenty years_?! Man, I’m the old one.”) and Kyungsoo failed at hiding his smile at the prospect.

The spicy tang of the cooking _Maeun-tang_ does nothing to erase the persistent smell of eaten hamburgers, sweat and ink, Baekhyun still here with him if he concentrates enough. Kyungsoo shakes his head.

“I can’t believe this...”

At first, Kyungsoo did not like Baekhyun much. Too loud, eating like a caveman and smile too easygoing to be sincere. Only, it was sincere, like everything else the American was doing and, slowly, Kyungsoo learnt to relax in his presence even if he will never tell him that. No, Baekhyun will not let him live if he knew.

The soup boils gently, fish and green vegetables turning red with the chili pepper paste, the dish strong enough to make the Europeans frown with distaste. Once, Kyungsoo proposed to cook Korean food at the bar but, after only a bite, half of the staff was coughing from the heavy spice and called him a poisoner.

Wimps.

They do not know how to appreciate different foods and this is why Kyungsoo is stuck at making hamburgers, fries and anything the patrons would like, keeping his peculiar dishes inside his four walls, where nobody could criticise them. Except his soul buddies when they happen to come even though Kyungsoo tries his best to avoid all of them.

The odour of the soup is strong but he still smells hamburgers.

Maybe not all of them.

Baekhyun appeared once, when he was in the middle of preparing _Dak-_ bokkeum _-tang_ , his friend eager to try Korean food for the first time. (“Baekhyun, I must warn you, the chicken is really spicy.” “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine!”) Needless to say, the usual tanned and joyful face morphed into a grimace, the cheeks redder than any red chili pepper and tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. At that moment, Kyungsoo was certain Baekhyun would end up hyperventilating or jumping around like an idiot, only…

Only Baekhyun did none of that. He kept eating, crying at the spiciness but saying between mouthful of chicken “It’s good, Kyungsoo, a bit spicy but it’s very good.” And, even though he was clearly forcing himself to eat the piquant dish, Kyungsoo was the one suddenly feeling overly warm. That day, he decided Baekhyun was not that bad.

Kyungsoo was adding soy sauce when he feels an unwanted presence behind him.

When he turns, there is no one.

***

  
Kyungsoo has less time to think when he is in the kitchen, less time to actually care about the presentation of the dishes even if he is the only one.

He runs between the grill, the sauce stewing, the onions and the call of the barman, the man also lost without Chanyeol. Their boss did not employ anyone else yet and all the staff is left running low, one of their servers even missing because he ran into a potted plant. Kyungsoo can almost hear Chanyeol cursing the bloody plant and he was right. They are annoying. Ugly.

He does not even have the luxury to linger on this thought that a new order comes in, Kyungsoo trying to keep his frustration at bay.

It was easier with Chanyeol around.

  
***

  
It takes him another day of frustration before mustering up the courage to walk down the street. If he was going home, farther away from the centre, unrepaired houses from the war would appear as well as closed stores and vacant sites peppered with holes left by bombs. Yet, he is not going home. Not right away.

Chanyeol’s neighbourhood is common knowledge at their workplace, still, they both agree over the phone it was a bad idea to meet there; his friend not wishing to go to the bar either.

This is why Kyungsoo found himself sitting in a pub near King’s cross, an Irish one where the server’s accent was so heavy he wondered if he was fluent in English at all. He asks for two pints of beer after two failed attempts at understanding the waiter, Chanyeol arriving a minute later.

They are not exactly friends, Kyungsoo knows this. But he also knows that Chanyeol did not destroy the piano because he decided to do it. No, he knows what Chanyeol is. He knows since that one time in the kitchen when the man’s eyes were somewhat hooded, his friend not seeing him even if he was waving his hand right in front of the big eyes.

(“Soul buddy, Kyungsoo.” Baekhyun grinned. “Isn’t this word genius? Isn’t our whole situation a miracle?)

“Hi.”

Kyungsoo is not optimistic about their situation like Baekhyun. He would not go as far as calling it a curse but seeing how Chanyeol was affected that day, it could as well be one.

“Hi.” The deep voice greets him easily, loud enough to be heard even over the noise all around them. “I’m happy to see you.”

Chanyeol’s clothes are proper, not that Kyungsoo was not aware of the comfortable situation of his family, only he is surprised to see how well his friend looks. Far from devastated, genuine in his shy smile.

“I can see that...” Chanyeol lights up, like always when Kyungsoo agrees to make conversation. “How have you been?”

The big eyes falls to the floor a second before staring at Kyungsoo again, Chanyeol shrugging. “Not as bad as I would have first thought. I started working for my father four days ago...” He bites on his bottom lip as always when he is nervous. “It’s… less fun than at the bar.”

Kyungsoo would not call their – his – work at the bar fun so he can only imagine the pressure on the man’s shoulders now, Chanyeol always shying away from his father every time he could.

“But,” Chanyeol continues. “It could be worse. I met… someone nice and he helps me holding up.”

Kyungsoo hums and takes a sip of his beer when Chanyeol’s eyes widen. “Oh god, sorry Kyungsoo, I keep talking about myself! How have you been?”

“I’m used to your babbling.” His words are teasing and he hopes they come out this way, but people tend to think of him as rude and cold. “I’m well, work is just harder without you.”

“So you do miss me?”

Kyungsoo rolls his eyes. “I miss a helping hand, not you particularly.”

Buzzing sound, entertaining music and boisterous laugh help them ease up into their conversation, Kyungsoo reassured to see Chanyeol smile, the man far from beating himself down even if he is still careful around the cook, hands gestures restrained, voice controlled and smile just right. After all, Chanyeol is used to being told to control himself by his family and co-workers and no matter how it saddens Kyungsoo, it is not his place to say something. Still, the relaxed face helps him not to dwell on the guilty feeling, Kyungsoo wondering once more about this new person.

“But who is he anyway?” At the questioning big eyes, he continues. “The man helping you holding up?”

Chanyeol blinks, once, twice, and then blushes. “Hum. He… is not from work.” He looks elsewhere and Kyungsoo does not miss the bite on his lip. Chanyeol is nervous. Again. “I met him… in a café. He loves music like me and it’s… agreeable.”

Kyungsoo is far from an idiot and has spent enough time in Chanyeol’s company to tell when the man lies. Still, he chose not to point it out, just humming while he finishes his pint, the bitterness of the alcohol lingering on the back of his tongue. He does not like being lied to – who does anyway? – but he supposes Chanyeol has his reasons. After all, Kyungsoo is not totally honest with the giant either.

“It’s good then. I don’t remember the last time you told me about a new friend.”

Chanyeol winces a bit but hides his expression behind his beer. “Yeah.” He swigs then shakes his head as if trying to clear any bad thoughts he could have had. Kyungsoo feels bad for bringing the subject up. “He is funny and actually listens to me.” A smile. “He knows so much about music and he is good-looking too...” he trails off before shaking his head again, like a wet puppy trying to get rid of rain. “Not that I noticed… hum.”

Kyungsoo decides to save him, knowing only too well how dangerous this kind of subject can be although Chanyeol probably meant nothing by it. “Did I tell you about the fight between two customers last week? They were screaming at each other’s faces, completely drunk, to know which one of them would taste the best covered in syrup?”

Chanyeol laughs as Kyungsoo continues, appreciating the wide smile on the giant’s cheeks, no longer restrained.

  
***

  
Three pints of beer is not enough to deter Kyungsoo from having his late afternoon tea, the heavy pot on the gas stove, water starting to bubble while he lets his eyes linger on the Earl Grey, Chamomile, Jasmine, Ceylon…

A presence behind him. This time Kyungsoo does not turn right away, trying to make out the shape of the silhouette in the metallic pot, the blurry image not enough to calm his beating heart. His hand is slowly reaching for a knife when the person almost falls on him, hands encircling his waist, the chin of the man digging in Kyungsoo’s shoulders with a gruff.

Kyungsoo lets go of the knife and sighs.

“You seriously scared me,” the hands around his waist tighten and Kyungsoo tries his best not to blush. It would be inappropriate. “Baek, why are you here at…” he frowns at the clock, the little hand showing six in the afternoon. “Two o’clock in your country. Aren’t you supposed to be at work or something?”

Kyungsoo does not mind the company. It has been months since he admitted enjoying Baekhyun’s visits, with his shining eyes and contagious laugh, sitting in the shabby British apartment like he owns it. The problem here is Kyungsoo; he likes the other’s company a bit too much.

“I don’t work on Friday afternoons,” he snuggles closer, Baekhyun’s front warm against his back, the temperature in London dropping day by day but not right now. “And… I had an unpleasant lunch with someone.”

The water is boiling but Kyungsoo cannot bring himself to care.

“If it’s about a woman who didn’t want to sleep with you, I swear to god…”

A chuckle. “No, it’s not like that. I had to interview someone for a new article I’m working on and…” he pauses, his fingers playing with Kyungsoo’s shirt, hands delicate. Kyungsoo wonders, sometimes, how can these hands hold sebaceous hamburgers and fries, the sight just wrong. “The man was clearly racist. I have to write an article on American’s new consumptions habits and this dumbass,” Baekhyun clenches on the white fabric, Kyungsoo silent as his friend lets his wrath shows. “He just spoke about how the economy would be better off in America if slavery was still in place and I couldn’t insult him because he is important and I could get fired but I was so so so angry, he was...”

Kyungsoo turns toward Baekhyun, their proximity surprising him for a second before placing his hands on the man’s shoulders, his fingers finding their way in the nest of brown hair. The gesture is supposed to be soothing but he does not miss Baekhyun’s shocked expression, his friend aware of Kyungsoo’s dislike for physical contacts.

“He is a dick.”

Baekhyun probably went for a run after his revolting interview, his roots wet and greasy yet Kyungsoo lets his fingers travel through the strands of otherwise soft locks. If a different person was involved, he would be repulsed but, now, he enjoys the moment, Baekhyun even closing his eyes an instant, humming in contentment. Kyungsoo feels guilty for appreciating this moment more than he should but not enough to drop his hand, twisting a strand of brown hair around his index.

“You cursed.” Baekhyun murmurs, almost in awe, his breath fanning over Kyungsoo’s mouth. “You cursed and it wasn’t for me.”

Kyungsoo rolls his eyes and finally lets his hand fall, turning away from Baekhyun. The tap is right in front of him although he refrains from washing his hands; not right now. “Shut up. I’ll make myself an Earl Grey. What do you want?”

“Do you have coke?”

“Chamomile, all right.”

His friend is probably pouting but Kyungsoo ignores him, pouring the fuming water in two china cups.

“You, hum,” the cook adds the leaves in the cup while Baekhyun makes up his mind, adding two sugars in the Chamomile cup. “You don’t mind my babbling today?”

“It’s not babbling if it’s real problems.” He sets Baekhyun’s cup on the table, knowing his soul buddy cannot physically drink if Kyungsoo does not first. “I don’t mind.”

The rain is heavier now, droplets of water seeming interested in Kyungsoo’s house, bringing the clouds right above Baekhyun’s head, the frown on his lips unusual and wrong.

“It’s just… I don’t understand people sometimes. After so many wars, after everything America went through… how can people judge each other so easily? How can people say things like that? It baffles me.”

Kyungsoo drinks the Chamomile tea first, letting the savour linger on his tongue to share it with Baekhyun, his friend relaxing briefly.

“It’s the same with the rest of the world. While I understand where some people come from it’s just...” He bites on his pink lips. “It’s just sad. Last time you weren’t there, but Minseok insulted Yixing for his sexuality.” Baekhyun’s stare hardens. “It’s just so...”

The journalist does not finish his sentence and it is weird because Baekhyun is always one with too many words, sentences tumbling on themselves and rarely in order, except when they are lied down on paper. It is even weirder Kyungsoo wishes him to continue, even if he should be thankful for the silence; he is not.

“Your thinking is ahead of our time, I think.”

“Maybe...” Baekhyun closes his eyes an instant, Kyungsoo letting his eyes linger on the shape of his nose, lips, cheeks, like many times before. “I hate war and discriminations so much, Soo. I wish we lived in a different period.”

“We?”

Baekhyun offers him a smile, bright enough to make Kyungsoo forget about the rain outside.

“Yeah. I would bring you with me. In a universe with no war, just music and hamburgers and maybe flying cars.”

The cook tries his very best not to appear affected by the words, wanting so much to reach out for the boy right next to him and never let him go.

“And letting you drive a flying car?” he deadpans, Baekhyun nodding rapidly with a happy grin. “Bloody hell no, I value my life. I’ll stay here, thank you.”

Baekhyun starts to whine while Kyungsoo sips on his tea, trying to drown his smile in the citrus flavour and aroma. He fails.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I completly changed my writing style for the new story I'm writing so I'm surprised everytime I re-read one of my chapter haha. (For those wondering, I don't post everything in one go because my betas are busy as hell and need time.)

**Author's Note:**

> You are welcome to leave comments and kudos~  
> See you soon!


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